


Truce

by AVoresmith



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AKA what if Hanzo was more of a mess and more of an asshole, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drama, Gen, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyshipping, Poor Life Choices, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Yakuza AU, also lots of romanticized use of cancer sticks, middle aged smols and their adopted dads, no actual incest yet but we'll get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 126,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVoresmith/pseuds/AVoresmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Hanzo never leaves the Shimada, and Genji never leaves Overwatch. Both of them work through their loyalties,  personal development, and long histories of vengeful and violent decisions. McCree is also around to help his smol fussy badasses sort through their vast, endless piles of complex shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The chair is horrifically uncomfortable. 

Hanzo can not be sure if it is the construction of the cheap metal, or the way his arms are held loosely behind his back by a pair of handcuffs, or even the network of bruises no doubt mapping across his skin from the earlier scuffle. Most likely some combination of all three. 

The handcuffs are certainly the most _objectionable_ , if not unreasonable. Had the omnic ninja not been there he is quite sure he would have won the alleyway brawl with his dark clad captors. Instead his head had met a brick wall with enough force that his vision had gone white. As it had faded to black, a tinny whisper reminded him he has sins to answer for. 

Hanzo's next memories were of blearily waking in the corner of a small room with steel walls. 

Perhaps, he wonders not for the first time, he has been drinking too much.

Perhaps that will all be over soon.

The room Hanzo has been locked in is narrow and with a low ceiling; non-descript and empty save for a thin table, which Hanzo occupies one side of, but leaves little space for anyone on the other. There are no windows. The only door has no handle and is made to slide smoothly into one wall if opened. Hanzo tries to remember if he's seen this design anywhere in Hanamura, and determines wherever he had been dragged off to, it is foreign to him.

The ominous 'they' must want him to sober up. It would explain why he's been left to stew in florescent lit silence for the better part of an hour. 

He should _also_ want to sober up. This has been, by all accounts, a piss poor evening, and he may well be dead by morning. But even with less alcohol in his blood, would that idea be particularly concerning? He has trouble believing it. At least it is easier to shoulder the humiliation with inebriation on his side.

Not that he has the option to resign himself to death, however much he has earned it. He will not shame those left to him by dying half in the bottle without a weapon on his person.

Hanzo closes his eyes and relaxes. The warm buzz in his blood dulls the aches of his mind and body, and he considers the enemy.

He is confident he can guess his captors' identities -- or rather, their organization. The real question is why they have not killed him. Overwatch had put plenty of the Shimada clan in prison years ago, during their systematic dismantling of everything he'd inherited. But entry into the justice system was only permitted to those who had been captured easily, who were not great threats themselves. All of their strongest warriors had been cut down, quick and remorseless. The organization's popularity had dropped significantly in the last couple years, but back then the civilians had no idea of just how many criminals were met with the same level of lawless street justice they were accused of dispensing. 

Had he been so lost in his sake that he hadn't put up enough of a fight to be worth killing? Or were his old enemies hoping to make a show of bringing him in alive?

Or, and Hanzo's eyebrows knit as he considers a particularly unsavory possibility, did they want revenge for their fallen comrade? Hanzo had been sure the job was completed undetected, but what if he is wrong and Overwatch had returned to finish the work they had started seven years ago? If that was the case he is likely in store for more than simply death.

Hanzo tries to ignore the tightening in his gut. He shoves the worry aside. Regardless of why he is here, he will need to escape. With any luck his captors will leave him alone long enough to sober completely and he will be in much better condition to take his leave.

\---------

Hanzo is not surprised that luck is not on his side tonight. It is not even fifteen minutes before there is a soft click and the room's single door slides open, revealing a. 

...Revealing an American cowboy.

A _cowboy_ , an honest to god--

Hanzo laughs, startled. He couldn't stop it if he wanted to, but he makes not the slightest attempt. Whatever trepidation he has been avoiding giving thought to melts away in the face of sheer absurdity. It seems like a bad joke; a yakuza boss and a cowboy are present, if only they had met back at the bar.

The cowboy is large in nearly every dimension, and his silhouette distinct enough that Hanzo is sure this man did not participate in his capture. The top of the Overwatch agent's dusty, wide brimmed hat only has a few inches clearance on the ceiling. He has mud brown eyes lost between thatches of dirt brown hair framing tanned skin, and a thick neck that extends to thicker shoulders. One hand is prosthetic. However ridiculous the man's costume makes him appear, Hanzo would believe the cowboy could hold his own in a scuffle. There is also a six cylinder gun at the cowboy's hip, _that_ Hanzo is not convinced is more than a novelty, though he has heard similar cracks made at his weapon of choice.

Hanzo can even make out the jingle of-- what are they called? The little metal stars these American caricatures wear on their ostentatious boots. Spurs. Unbelievable.

As his gaze scans down the man the last detail to catch his notice is an oversized belt buckle declaring him a BAMF and Hanzo _does_ have to stop himself from laughing this time, lest he fall into an embarrassing rhythm of drunken giggles. 

The cowboy, who has also been appraising Hanzo, raises his bushy eyebrows, curves his mouth down until the corners touch his beard, and speaks in English with such a soft, slow pull on the vowels that it takes Hanzo a moment to understand them. "Well shiit, here I was hoping an hour'd get you to where we could at least have a nice sit down, but by the sound of it, you're still drunker'n a skunk."

Hanzo's dying chuckles finally still as his focus shifts to deciphering the cowboy's accent and bizarre colloquialisms. He is still frowning through a mental debate on if he misremembers what a "skunk" is when the cowboy looks skyward with a theatrical sigh and then turns to exit again.

_That_ threat reels in Hanzo from his - admittedly still quite tipsy - musings.

" _Wait_." He snaps, and the cowboy does, turning back to Hanzo with a shameless grin and a dull chrome hand raised to open the bright silver door.

That cocksure attitude is irritating. It makes him feel as if _he_ is the joke, and not the man who went around in absurd cosplay while working for an organization with an interest in kidnapping disgraced crimelords.

Hanzo decides perhaps he would like to be a bit more clear headed for this after all, and takes a moment to exhale out his annoyance. He is more than a bit tipsy, nauseous, probably concussed, and moderately beaten, but he can manage this much without further shaming himself. It will take a _great_ deal more before he forgets how to manage the essentials of his daily life. 

The cowboy's gaze has turned curious, and Hanzo looks up with a sharp, mocking smile. It does not matter that Overwatch and its agents are among the worst of their enemies. Anyone not an ally will meet the same Shimada. "A stone would laugh in my situation. Did you think you were kidnapping someone off a movie set?"

"Oh." The cowboy looks up again, this time as if only just noticing the brim of his hat. For all the world as if he _genuinely_ hadn't realized what Hanzo found so funny. "Nah. This is just my regular get up. Guess you don't see this much in Japan, huh?"

His tone is casual, almost friendly, even in the face of Hanzo's blatant disrespect. Hanzo snorts. "I have been to America. _You_ look less an American than you do a western film otaku."

"Hhaw." The cowboy appears only just grazed by the jab. "Guessin you were more into the yakuza flicks, huh, Shimada-san?"

"I wasn't particularly into _any_ 'flicks'." Hanzo's return is dry. He is familiar with, and already tired of, this casual exchange. "Are you here to threaten me with something, Cowboy-san? Or does a character like yourself need to wait for the 'Bad Cop' to arrive before we can get on with this?"

The cowboy leans back against the wall, thick arms crossing broad chest. "Now, I don't believe none a that. You can't hate _all_ movies--" Hanzo narrows his eyes at the continued chatter, and other man stutters out an uncertain 'er' before realigning to the correct topic. "--anyway. Uh. What makes you think I ain't the bad cop?" When Hanzo doesn't bother to respond with more than a precisely lifted eyebrow, the cowboy barks out a single, soft guffaw. His prosthetic hand tugs at the brim of his ridiculous hat. "Yanno. I'm gonna take that as a compliment, Shimada-san. But nah. I see what you'd be worried about that but you're only dealing with me today. Tell ya the truth, if it were up to me I'd like it best if we friendly."

" _Friendly_?" Hanzo's words drip acid, turning slightly sweet as the humor of the idea hits him. "Should I be calling you Clown-san instead? With your propensity for looking and _sounding_ ridiculous it may fit you even better."

"Eesh, though maybe you just ain't the friendly type."

"Only to my _friends_."

"Oh, so you do got some of those. The reports on you weren't too sure of it."

Hanzo feels something in his gut clench up, and a slight widening in the eyes of his opponent makes it clear the cowboy didn't miss his blow connecting. The shame of _that_ stings the worst. 

"Sorry. Guess that wasn't very friendly like--"

"No." Hanzo tsks, sitting straighter. A faint wave of dizziness and nausea rolls through him and he hides it by looking over his shoulder and tugging at the handcuffs on his wrists. "If your organization knew of any left, I'm sure you would waste no expense on taking them as well."

There's a hesitation in the other man now. Hanzo watches him with narrow eyes as he pats himself down, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. That it's Hanzo's favorite brand doesn't escape him. "Which organization would that be?"

"Feh. Are you really going to waste my time pretending you do not work for Overwatch?" 

"I, ah--"

When the cowboy trips over the first word Hanzo sneers at him, no longer feigning good humor. Bad enough that he was likely going to die tonight, he refuses for it to be at the hands of this fool. "Do not waste my time. You think we know _nothing_ of those that sought to completely destroy our clan? Tonight was not the first time I have seen your assassin omnic."

The cowboy doesn't attempt to interrupt. For a moment seems to forget about the cigarette dangling between two fingers of his left hand. He remembers only once Hanzo finishes speaking, and the sudden, crisp silence of the room is broken first by the click of a lighter. The cowboy slowly sucks the flame into his cigarette. When he exhales the familiar warm, bitter scent reminds Hanzo that _he_ smells of alcohol, sweat, and blood. 

"Alright." When the cowboy finally speaks it seems to drag out even longer than before. Apparently his response to Hanzo's ire is to waste even more of his time. "So you got a pretty sure guess on who I work for. I never had nothing to do with attacking your clan or any othat, but can't say I'm surprised to hear you're holding a grudge about it. Wasn't lying though. This'll go a lot better for you if we get along, Shimada-san."

"Will it." Hanzo clips each word off like they were shot from his bow.

" _Yeah_ , it will." Hanzo expects him to go on, but instead he is met only with earnest brown eyes.

It gives Hanzo pause, and he feels himself drawing back to gauge his uncertainty. He chides himself; he'd shown an obvious tell. Perhaps he should sober up faster, has he not made enough foolish mistakes already tonight?

Very well, the Overwatch agent wanted to be _friends_. 

Hanzo lifts his chin, commanding the cowboy's attention. "Then as a gesture of _friendship_ , unbind me."

There is silence as the cowboy stares at him over his cigarette, like he isn't sure of what he's heard. Then a chuckle erupts, startled out of his large frame. It is mild and pleasant. Suspiciously so. "I'll be. I tell ya, fella. I've had this chat a few times over the years and I never seen no one as full of himself as you." Despite the implication of the words, he sounds honest in his admiration, a juxtaposition of expression that made Hanzo wonder if he isn't the only one that has been drinking.

"As expected, your friendship--"

But the cowboy shrugs and pushes away from the wall without allowing Hanzo to finish. "Sure, why the hell not?" 

Hanzo's surprise must show on his face because the cowboy's wide mouth forms a small grin, almost self conscious. He moves behind Hanzo to get at the cuffs. "Ya aren't getting out of here anyhow, so don't get any ideas. But the cuffs aren't doing either of us any favor, far as I can tell."

"Hm." Hanzo leans forward, making his wrists accessible. He glances down the cowboy's hip to where his gun hangs. If he is going to try to shoot his way out of this mess, now would be the ideal time. "That is the wisest thing to come out of your bumbling mouth so far."

"Mean sonnuva, aren't you?" But the cowboy's tone is still bizarrely congenial, and it sours Hanzo's mood further. "But I can't really blame you, you're having a real bad night. I'd be pitching a fit if some guys knocked me out and locked me up when I went out for drinks too." There is a soft hiss as the hard-light of the handcuffs recedes and he feels them pulled away from his wrists.

For a long moment -- probably too long, thanks to the faint fog still slowing his brain -- Hanzo debates elbowing the cowboy in the gut. He could grab the gun, point it at his face, demand his answers before silencing the fool and making his escape.

But he isn't convinced he would be entirely steady on his feet, and for the moment the imbecile seems interested in playing a game of information. If he wants to talk anyway, Hanzo may as well get what he can from the man while waiting for his body to recover from the earlier events of the night.

So instead of shoving the Overwatch agent away and holding him hostage with his own weapon, Hanzo sits up and rolls his shoulders, scraping off a bit of the stiffness. His wrists are undamaged by the cuffs, though he is beginning to feel the ache of bruises across his shoulders and thighs from the earlier brawl more more keenly. He brushes his loose hair out of his way, tucking stray strands behind one ear. 

"Thank you."

The words slip out without Hanzo having considered them, and the cowboy looks just as surprised about them entering their space as Hanzo feels having permitted it. 

Really, he should probably be thanking his luck that he's be sent a fool interrogator on a night when he apparently is determined to be quite the fool himself. He glares at his shirt cuffs as he absently folds them, smoothing the crease as if the whole of the garment isn't stained with blood and sake past recovery. Pity, it had been a gift. 

"Sure thing." The cowboy's tone suggests wariness. "Like I said, best for both of us to get along here."

With his hands free, Hanzo realizes he is finally able to scratch at inch under crust of blood on his jaw and he does, then peers down at his fingers as the rusty brown dirt of it stains his already dirty hands. For the first time since he woke up in this tiny holding cell it occurs to him that he is a fucking mess. His hair is loose, his knuckles have the skin scraped off, his coat is gone, and his shirt is disheveled and missing buttons. Trying to straighten himself up further would only draw more attention to how ridiculous that idea is without a shower and a change of clothes. 

This is _not_ how he had imagined his death going.

The cowboy is silent in the moments Hanzo spends taking inventory of himself, and when Hanzo meets his gaze again he catches the big man jerking his eyes away like child caught trying to peer up skirts. 

_Surely not_. Not when he is in this state.

"You keep saying that," Hanzo finally replies. The earlier irritation has mostly drained out of his tone; he has no interest in feigning warmth but he can manage something civil at least. "What happens if I refuse your overture?"

Another short puff of smoke escapes the cowboy's mouth before he replies. "Opción  
dos, you mean? That one is we fix you up with a nice cell in a maximum security penitentiary."

Hanzo feels his eyebrows jerk up, and finds a chuckle escaping despite himself. Is that all? He is tempted to ask on what charges, but he has no illusions that Overwatch would be unable to find anything or terribly bothered by the morality of not even looking. "All of this time and _now_ you want me locked away?" Hanzo leans back, scratching more blood off his upper lip as he lounges in the uncomfortable chair. It is important to not let your enemies see your fear, but it does not hurt that before this man he feels none. "Are you hoping that if you bring in a yakuza leader, it will restore some of Overwatch's good name?" Hanzo's smirk is bitter, but not without humor. "You are at least five years late to play that card."

It is the ugly truth but, as Hanzo has learned over the years, pretending otherwise gains him nothing. A lie that looks only like a petty failure's delusions convince no man of nothing. It took less than three years for Overwatch to dismantle the Shimada-gumi to a weakened state unlike it had faced in centuries. Hanzo is almost certain to be the final leader, and to be remembered as the Shimada's greatest failure. If Overwatch wanted to cash in on his clan's near eradication for popularity, it should have been done years ago. Today, the world would not care, _Japan_ might only just. 

"Nah, that's not it." The cowboy once again doesn't rise to Hanzo's bait, and he finds himself wondering if anything gets under the American's skin. "More like…" He taps ash on the floor without noticing -- Hanzo does and wishes there was an ashtray to throw at him. "More like overturn's been a mite high lately, and we got some openings."

"You wish to _employ_ me?"

"You got it."

It is so unexpected Hanzo isn't sure how to feel about it. His mind flicks through the potential angles, but none of them make sense. Are they hoping he will sell out his clan for the opportunity to avoid prison? Or is this simply some warped attempt at mockery? He forces out a derisive snort that fails to contain any heat. "You may not be worth much as an interrogator, but your talent for absurdist humor is noteworthy."

"Aw." The cowboy plucks at the brim of his hat; a tell that Hanzo wonders at the meaning of. "I get it, believe me. Been in your shoes, though not in a dog's age."

"Have you."

"Yeap. And I ain't pulling your leg, fella." A confused look must have made it across Hanzo's face, because the cowboy finally clarifies something. "Er. That means I'm serious. You got skill. You know, when you aren't three sheets to the wind anyway. I read the reports. We could use you."

"Save your praise, whether or not I would be an asset is not the question." The cowboy is stubbing out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, and Hanzo recognizes it as another opportunity to overtake him. He again passes it up, now genuinely curious about where Overwatch intends to go with this. "What did you mean, about my shoes? Are you saying you were employed via extortion?"

"Huh," the cowboy looks up, scratches idly at the shadow of hair growing on his thick neck. "Haven't thought about it that way in a long time, but yeah, more or less."

That _is_ interesting news. Overwatch is hiring from the ranks of the enemies it fells? On the public face it would look horrible, of course, but hasn't Overwatch been facing accusations of unlawful, unethical practices for years? The Shimada-gumi themselves have seen the level of brute violence they are willing to leverage to accomplish their tasks. 

But the idea sits poorly with him. Each organization has their way, but loyalty is sacred among the Shimada. Even in his family's haydey, most members inherited their place in the clan, and now that there are no more than a few scattered handfuls of his people left, in many ways that faithfulness burns more brightly than it had even in his youth. 

Lawful or not, an organization can not refresh its blood by siphoning it from the bodies of its foes. 

The cowboy is eyeing his pack of cigarettes like he is measuring the cost of chain smoking, and Hanzo gives him a single imperious crook of his finger. The cowboy balks briefly, then shoves a cigarette in his mouth. "You really got a way." But then he comes around the table, leans back on it until it butts up against the wall, and offers the pack to Hanzo.

Hanzo accepts a cigarette and the flame the cowboy holds out. The smoke in his mouth is warm and calming. The woody flavor is the reason he favors this brand, and it helps to mask the taste of old sake and iron on his tongue. When he leans back in his seat the smoke rolls past his lips in a slow stream. Dragon's breath. He's always secretly enjoyed that.

"You were not yakuza."

"Hah." Something about the cowboy's posture has relaxed, broad shoulders droop with a few millimeters more sag. In most cases Hanzo would assume it is an act; part of the game of dangerous negotiations prefaced by civility. In this case he suspects the cowboy actually just enjoys talking while smoking, even with a man he is threatening to incarcerate for life. "Wouldn't that be a sight? Nah, biker gang dealing in arms smuggling. They're still around a lil bit, but I got out- aw hell," he pinches the cigarette between his teeth and looks down at twitching fingers and his open palm. Counting, apparently. "About eighteen years. Goddamn."

Only habit keeps Hanzo from choking on sharp intake of smoke, and he searches the cowboy's features, looking for signs of aging he has missed. But no, the man can not be much older than him. "You were a child."

"Kind of you to fuss." Hanzo snorts, the cowboy grins. "And you aren't wrong to, neither. But look, at that age I'd already punched my own damn ticket a two dozen times over. If my boss hadn't taken me in back then I'd've gotten my loud mouth filled with lead inside a month at the pen." He takes a breath, lets out one filled with smoke, and continues like sharing this history costs him nothing. "I'm not saying it's the most up and up, but pretty sure you're not any more worthy of the high path than me."

"You are mistaken if you think I _want_ such an option. You betrayed your comrades." The accusation slips out like his own breath blew it just past his lips, and Hanzo immediately regrets letting it escape.

For the first time Hanzo detects a tightness in the cowboy's voice. "Funny thing t'hear, coming from the guy that killed his brother." And there it is -- just as anticipated. He would be a fool to not realize is a hypocrite, he _is_ a fool to keep inviting the opportunity for his rivals to use it against him.

Over the years Hanzo has adapted to acting as if he doesn't feel the strike. That his brother's death is a matter of course, that it means nothing. 

So it's a surprise even to himself when instead of refusing to respond he rolls to his feet. His vision is just enough out of sync with his sense of body that he can tell the alcohol hasn't fully left him, and the world rocks on a shallow tilt. 

The cowboy goes rigid and wary again. He's taller but this is of no consequence and doesn't prevent Hanzo, injured and unarmed, from presenting as a threat. He knows this. He has a lifetime of witnessing the hasty backwards shuffle of those who hadn't been ready for the ire they invited. The cowboy doesn't back up -- with the table behind there is no place for it -- but his right hand drops closer to his gun. 

"My brother betrayed our clan, like you did yours." He isn't wearing the right expression. He can hear the anger burning clearly in his own voice. He doesn't care, let the fool know, he isn't worth Hanzo's efforts at pretense. "Perhaps _he_ would have taken your offer, pity there was no chance."

Something jolts in the cowboy's expression at that, but Hanzo can't place it and forgets to search. He'd cut himself on that thought. Speaking of his brother is never a tactic that benefits him in the end. When will he learn to stop?

"...so you're saying you ain't interested?"

Hanzo's gaze jerks back to the cowboy, disoriented to find the Overwatch agent still so measured when such a torrent of emotions are crashing through his own gut. He decides he doesn't like this man. "I am not, you'll need to prepare that cell."

The cowboy sighs. He moves to pull the cigarette away from his lips, moves to put more space between himself and Hanzo. He is casual and slow and open for the hundredth time since this conversation started and now Hanzo doesn't pass it up; he's heard enough. 

With less alcohol in his system, less of a pulse painfully throbbing in his brain, he would be faster and smoother. But he's confident he is fast and smooth _enough_ to handle this idiot. He tightens his mouth, sucking hard on his cigarette while his left hand slams the cowboy's right into his own throat, eliciting choked cough. His right hand jerks the cowboy's gun from it's holster and he thumbs the hammer back.

Hanzo is familiar with guns, though he has only used a revolver once; for the novelty. But he had seen bullets in the chamber -- cocksure, this cowboy -- but no ammo on the man's belt. That means he has six shots. He can only waste one on this man. 

The cowboy reaches for Hanzo with his prosthetic, but his weakness in hand-to-hand is clear in his movements and Hanzo strikes him hard under the chin with the butt of the gun, draws half a step to the side and uses the cowboy's moment of disorientation to pull the trigger with the barrel digging into the soft underside of the man's jaw. 

He thinks he hears a complaint forming on the man's lips before it's swallowed by the deafening blast of gunfire reverberating through a tiny room. 

A brilliant, translucent gold cloud erupts out of the hole in the cowboy's jaw, and for a moment Hanzo thinks he has somehow been talking to some new breed of omnic this whole time. But no, there is no hole. As he draws the gun back all he sees is a rapidly forming red bruise. The bullet hadn't penetrated, it had-- disintegrated? 

"Shit! That smarts." The cowboy is reeling forward after the one-two combination of pistol whip and gunfire had threatened to topple him. Hanzo should follow up with an immediate attack but he is still puzzling out the gold fog, the bruise, the fact that he is watching the red mark disappear before it has even fully formed. 

The cowboy tips his hat forward, brim hiding his face, and lifts his left arm from behind his hip. Another weapon. Hanzo dances back, nearly tripping over the chair behind him as he lifts the gun to fire again just as a small bronze ball almost seems to float up between them, spinning slowly.

He has just enough time to recognize two facts:

First: He does not want to die, beaten, humiliated, half tipsy from a night of unapologetic indiscretion, alone in tiny room to a grenade blast.

Second: The stranger also would not want to die. So it can not be a grenade.

The flashbang erupts and Hanzo's vision goes white for the second time that night. The cigarette finally falls from his lips. Smoke tickles out his nose. The split second feels like a held breath as he can see and hear nothing. 

Then it is all moving again. He body is spun against his will. He feels his face slammed into a wall but registers it more via the tremor running through his bones than the pain. The steel wall under his cheek is cool and smooth, when the floor of the alley in Hanamura had been cold and rough.

Last and finally, pain drains all the way down from the back of his skull to his stomach in a slow, nauseating wave as his entire body protests against all of his rough treatment of it while it is still working poison out of his system.

Hanzo has long lost the gun by the time he comes to his senses enough to think of it. His hands are jerked behind him and the cowboy is replacing the handcuffs he'd removed earlier. An irreverent thought floats across Hanzo's disrupted consciousness: the cowboy seems both larger and less amusing when he is at Hanzo's back.

"So much for the friendly route." Even now, having nearly been shot, the cowboy sounds only slightly perturbed. A burning fury nearly overtakes the sick churn in his gut. This does nothing to temper his need to vomit.

"How." He squeezes the demand out, no longer feigning detachment. The Overwatch agent had tricked him, that much is clear. His ridiculous outfit, overtures of friendliness, pathetic attempts to bond had not been to earn Hanzo's trust but to earn his disrespect. Straight forward tactics: present whoever you want them to see. And Overwatch had wanted him to see a fool. 

"Ya mean the bullet?" The cowboy pulls away a moment, there is as scrape from the floor as he retrieves his gun, but before he can orient himself enough to pull away from the wall the weight holding him to it has returned. "Biotics. Fresh out of R&D. Bites like a mad hen but it'll put pep in your step, and sometimes out in the field it makes all the difference. You woulda been better off pulling the trigger on yourself."

"It's occurred to me." Hanzo hisses out. Uncaring of what the cowboy takes away from that admission. "You have my answer, we are done here."

For a moment it seems like the cowboy will do as he's told. Hanzo hears only the wet slap of the man's mouth working. Making some idiot expression, no doubt. His pulse pounds through his head, getting worse by the moment. 

Then there is a solid, unyielding hand at the back of his neck. The prosthetic. Is the plan to kill him after all? Hanzo flashes back to the moment of startling clarity provoked by the flashbang hovering in front of him. Now, when his fate feels less certain, he is again unsure of what he wants from it. 

"Nah, I don't think so." The response, when it finally comes, is slow and rough. Like the cowboy has to drag his thoughts across a bed of gravel before giving them voice. "But we can quit for now. Nothing good's gonna come when you're wound up tightern a two dollar watch." What the hell does that even mean. "Listen though, you're a clever guy, no doubt about it, but you got one thing wrong; I don't work for Overwatch."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo sees a shadow raise, even without quite knowing what it is he braces himself for the impact anyway. 

"Every family's got a black sheep, you know? Well, with Overwatch it's more of a whole damn flock. I'm with those guys. Welcome to Blackwatch, compadre."

The butt of the the cowboy's revolver strikes him clean on the back of the head, not far from where the omnic had hit him earlier. It doesn't hurt. He doesn't feel anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
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>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
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> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
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> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't actually know what direction this fic is going in the long run! I will update the tags every time I post a chapter appropriately. Read or not based on your desire to be surprised.

Genji crouches in the dark at the back of the transport shuttle. Before him a large window provides a soft goldenrod view of the sunrise over Japan as they put his homeland behind them. 

The sunlight spilling across Japan's misty morning is undoubtedly beautiful, but seeing it only inspires a cold, hollow ache in his heart. If you no longer belong somewhere, can it be called a home just because you once had? It does not feel like it, and never has in the dozens of times he had returned over the years. 

He isn't fond of flying. Ironic, considering his childhood nickname. But there's no sense of freedom, only the claustrophobia of having locked himself in yet another layer of metal, trapped with his thoughts and little distraction.

He could go back to the front of the shuttle, listen to the banter between McCree and Fawkes-san. But Fawkes-san has been badly injured -- broken arm, broken nose, missing teeth -- in the fight to capture his brother. A sober Hanzo fights like his entire being is a precision instrument, with no movement wasted, no targets missed, no thoughts that might inspire hesitation. A _drunk_ Hanzo is all dirty tactics and graceless fury. Less dangerous, but startling in its unfamiliarity. Genji made an error in his surprise and Fawkes-kun has paid the price. 

"Shit." His voice is a softly echoed grumble in his own ears. He barely even knows Fawkes-san, but already he owes him dearly for both his help and the injury he sustained. He shouldn't have let McCree talk him into bringing along help. He shouldn't have let McCree talk him into any part of this. Already Hanzo has tried to murder his friend. Genji has no faith it will be the only time.

There is a soft knock behind Genji, polite but pointless since everywhere McCree goes, his heavy boots and tickling spurs give him away. A dangerous tell Genji has warned him about a dozen times, to no effect. 

"Howdy there, pardner."

Genji rises from his crouch, turning to greet his friend with a shallow bow. Regardless of his misgivings, McCree has risked himself considerably on Genji's behalf, and he is grateful. "Thank you for your help. I'm glad Hanzo didn't injure you badly."

McCree grins. He always appears halfway charmed whenever Genji behaves properly to him. Likely because there had been many occasions over the years when Genji has not bothered. It seems showing the American anything other than jaded disinterest is still novel. It's a bit embarrassing.

"Don't worry about it. Your idea was real good. If I hadn't left him the gun to go for he mighta got more creative. Not sure I could take him mano-a-mano. Your brother's bout as mean as--"

"--as a dragon who's seen his empire burn?" Genji cuts in, tone cheeky with dark humor. 

A quiet, awkward laugh bursts out of McCree and he grabs his hat as if he needs to hold onto something. "Yeah, guess bout exactly that much."

Genji turns his gaze back to Japan, though now it is just a faded smudge on the horizon. They are high enough that all he can really see is a darkening yellow-grey sheet of cloud cover. Nothing there to calm the sense of intestines he no-longer has tightening into knots. He can no longer imagine meeting his brother's eyes and not being instantly set aflame by memories of suffering and betrayal. There is nothing to gain from this? Why had he agreed?

The green lights of his cybernetic body flicker briefly off, then light again; the result of an impulse to disappear, find a shadow to hide in. Habit. 

Then there is a soft, jingling step and McCree sidles up beside him. His warm right arm drops around Genji's narrow shoulders, tugging the cyborg against the cowboy's solid frame. With a smooth and familiar motion the cowboy silently transports his hat form his own head to Genji's, twisting it in place in a way that never failed to remind Genji of his father ruffling his hair. 

The anxiety in him does not evaporate, but it stills, like a bird fluttering just on the edge of McCree's hand. 

"It's gonna be alright, pardner." Genji has noticed that when McCree wants to calm him, his drawl elongates. Each syllable is spoken with that much more care. "One way or another you'll get settled with him."

"One way or another." Genji agrees, intending to sound resolute, confident. Instead his words come out withered and hollow.

This moment, he realizes, had been years in the making. Eight years since the fight in which Hanzo had nearly killed him. Four years since Overwatch had closed the books on dealing with the Shimada. Two years since Genji had, at what he was assured was a halfway decent ramen shop after a mission in L.A., admitted to the cowboy in a moment of uncertain camaraderie that he had a brother. 

"Why not bring him on board?" McCree had asked, with all the well-intentioned arrogance of someone uninvolved but with all of the answers. Genji had lost his interest in the conversation promptly. The night hadn't ended well, but the suggestion had eaten away at him ever since. 

Now here they are, with his brother just a few rooms away. He can have Hanzo sent to prison, freed, killed. He can do as McCree wants and hope his brother finds the same value in Overwatch that he and others have.

Yet, what can Overwatch do to change the man who has chosen the violent business of their clan over the life of his brother? A man who never faltered over that choice, who only began to fall after Genji himself killed or incarcerated nearly all his supports? They had both always stubbornly followed their own desires, and Hanzo had wanted to rule their father's empire.

Had they turned on each other in a moment of pride and violence gone too far, or had that only been the inevitable end of two men bound together despite never wanting to walk the same paths to begin with?

"What did you think of him?" It's the first question that comes to mind, anything to turn his focus away from that night.

"Err, well." McCree rocks against him, a subtle shift of his weight from right to left. "You listened to the whole thing, yeah?"

Genji hums positively.

"Gotta tell you then, Genji. Your brother's got more problems than a one-legged dog at a mailman convention."

"McCree."

"Mad at everything but can't do more'n bare his teeth."

"Hah, if you say that to my brother's face you will very quickly lose yours."

McCree chuckles. A slow roll of soft, warm chuffs that Genji has always found soothing. "I think you're probably right about that one. Anyway, what I'm saying is, he's a bit of a shitshow."

Hearing his friend declare his brother so probably _shouldn't_ spark a warm glow inside him, but it blooms there none-the-less. Whatever is wrong with him, and the list is extensive, he is at least doing better than his brother.

"You know, he used to give me endless shit for my drinking." Memories are dangerous things, but he has been getting better about exploring them lately. His tone is wry.

"I remember you talking 'bout all the skirt you've chased."

"Not _just_ skirts." Genji corrects, glibly. Secretly pleased he can tote the sexual prowess of his youth once more.

"And boy, wouldn't I've liked to see that." What did that mean? Genji turns toward McCree, sensors playing across the American's soft and congenial face. McCree is staring out the dark window and doesn't appear to notice Genji's scrutiny. "Anyway, bet he got fussy about that, too."

Hearing someone call Hanzo _fussy_ surprises a laugh out of Genji. "Man, you have no idea." He finally tugs away from McCree, not bothering to return his hat. Outside the shuttle it is night again; they've outflown the sun on their way west. Instead he turns to the cowboy; who is lit up by the dim green glow of Genji's cybernetics and the orange lights playing off screens that panel the walls. "He got so mad I started bringing them home just to piss him off."

McCree grins at him, flicks his prosthetic thumb against the corner of his belt buckle. A subtle morse code signalling his enjoyment of the moment. Genji looks for it often, lately. "What's the matter. He couldn't keep up?"

" _Hanzo?_ " Another laugh. It was getting easier. "He wasn't in the race."

"Huh." McCree looks surprised by that, and Genji recalls the state they had found Hanzo in today. Drunk, half undone, certainly he had been with someone earlier in the night. Apparently the fall from power had loosened Hanzo up on the way down. McCree can't be blamed for not realizing how _frigid_ Hanzo had been just ten years ago.

Genji removes McCree's hat, holds the brim between his two inhuman hands turns it slowly. "Too busy getting ready to rule the empire to excavate the stick from his ass."

"Now you're sounding like a brother."

The way McCree says it is fond, but Genji feels sluggish as the watches words slide gently up and wind him with a sharp jab to his gut. The green light flickers.

"Er." Genji goes still and McCree fumbles. "Guess that was kinda..." He has plenty of experience by now with stumbling onto one of the many landminds lying in wait through out any conversation with Genji. Frankly, Genji wishes he himself knew where they were, so he could warn his friend away.

But just like that his stilled anxiety returns, vibrating quietly through his synthetic muscle in lieu of having any insides to churn. He's more annoyed at himself than McCree. This would never work, the hope of _something_ , he has no idea what, is only going to drag up more misery. 

He should just send his brother to prison and forget about him forever.

Genji lifts his head, and carefully forces his movements to not be sharp, not be threatening. He is done with that petty behavior. His friends don't deserve to be lashed out at. Instead he deftly drops the cowboy hat back on its owner's head. McCree gives him an abashed look and tips the brim in apology or thanks. He doesn't try to stop Genji when the cyborg nods at him and heads toward the front of the ship. 

"I'm going to apologize to Fawkes-san," he says by way of an excuse. "You should get some rest."

"I'll think about it. See ya later, pardner."

\-------

He _does_ think about it, but both Shimada encounters tonight have left him faintly buzzing and wishing they weren't stuck on a shuttle for the next several hours. The Blackwatch base under Gibraltar has the best place to stash an angry yakuza boss for a few days until steam finishes leaking outta his ears, but it will be long night before they get there. 

Jesse paces instead, finding the rhythmic thump and jingle of his own footfalls almost not half as good a night noisy with cicadas but better than shit in the hand. He'd like to smoke but he's supposed to be cutting back and dammit, he's serious this time. Thirty-five oughta be old enough to kick a bad habit he's had since his Deadlock days. 

Reyes isn't gonna have any kind words for this op, he decides. Injured operative and uncooperative detainee who is honor-bound to tell them all to shove it up where the sun don't shine. Chances Genji's brother will really opt to join them, and that it wouldn't turn out to be a trick just to make a quick getaway, are slim to none. 

Genji's spent the past week, ever since Jesse told him he'd arranged the op, jittering around in his metal skin like a man on his fourth pot of joe. And truth be told, Jesse worries he's made the wrong call on this one. Maybe lying dragons are best left alone. The cyborg has opened up a lot from the bitter loner Jesse had met in passing at the Swiss branch years back, but Genji still spends more days than is right ready to blow if a spark blew his way, and maybe the way to help with that _isn't_ to bring in the man that had burnt him up so bad years ago.

But, families are complicated. 

Hell, he gets the feeling _Hanzo_ is complicated all by himself. _That_ had been an interrogation for the ages, if it can even be called that. Usually these affairs are more cut and dry. He lays out the options, makes it clear seeing things his way will work out best for everyone, and susses it out from there. They don't bring in a lot of guys this way and Jesse cherry picks who he is willing to bet on well before he stands across a table from em. Trying to bring the elder Shimada on board when Jesse had known he wasn't going to want none of it was a special case. It's not so much what he knows about Hanzo -- though he's read up on all the intel he could find -- as what he knows about Genji; a whole hell of a lot.

Gotta admit though, nothing about Genji's wistful reminiscence of aggravating his more proper older brother had prepared Jesse for the man passed out in the shuttle's holding cell.

Hanzo is all over the place. From flippant mockery to focused curiosity, then ready to cancel Jesse's birth certificate the instant Genji gets brung up, finally capping it off by letting on that he might be more interested in cancelling his own instead. The only consistent thread through the whole thing had been pride. Doesn't matter if Hanzo is piercing him with eyes like to keep him up at night, or fixing to punch Jesse's ticket with own gun, this cowboy's never seen anyone so full of himself in his life.

Maybe that's what it did, growing up rich. Might make a man feel like he's been chosen by the gods.

Then again, according to Genji that isn't too far from the facts.

Jesse looks down to his cybernetic hand and nearly spits. _God damn_ he'd lit another smoke without even noticing. Hell, maybe he should talk to Angela about digital variety afterall.

Ugh, no. He'd never live it down. Cowboys don't vape.

Jesse let's out a sigh that feels like it deflates his whole chest. Nothing had gone as bad as it could but he's not eager to report in about it either. He inhales on the cigarette and then lets the smoke roll out of him. He remembers how Hanzo had looked, languishing bloody and disheveled in a folding chair, kingly as anything with smoke floating in wisps past his lips.

God damn.

The cigarettes themselves don't do much for him. Local brand he'd picked up in the hours before the op started. He'd rather have a cigarillo but it's worth it to go into an interrogation with something the other guy wants. He has a few cases more and half a dozen bottles of sake stored on the shuttle; he'll need em in the days to come.

"Alright, better get it over with, McCree." He grumbles to no one as he finishes the last of his smoke break, stubs the cigarette out on his boot, drops the butt back into the pack. Jesse takes one last look out the dark shuttle window, noting some stars are finally visible, blinking over head, then moves past it to go tap on one of the monitors. Time to call el jefe. 

\----------

It takes Reyes five seconds to pick up the call. Jesse's never known him to even once pick up any sooner and often it'd be later. Five seconds usually means he isn't interrupting, and it isn't a bad time. Probably because it's 2300 over at HQ and decent folk are all in bed, leaving indecent ones time to themselves.

"Cabrón, do you know what fucking time it is over here?"

_What fucking time it is_ hasn't prevented the captain from being at his desk, judging from the familiar beige walls and single framed newsclipping of the original Overwatch strike group, declaring an end to the Omnic Crisis. There is also the little barrel cactus in a terracotta pot in the corner of the screen. It isn't looking too hot. 

"Er…" Jesse rubs his thumb up and down the scruff at his jaw. "Bit after noon, right? Seven hours?" 

"Seven hours _the other way_." Reyes' voice rolls with a low, unmistakable irritation.

Jesse doesn't hide his grin, and the wider it gets the closer Reyes' brows knit together. "Sorry boss. You know I'm always mix em up."

"Don't 'sorry boss' me, you little shit. Would've taken you ten seconds to look that up."

"You always said I was lazy."

Reyes doesn't look tired, despite the hour or his age. He's got twenty years on Jesse and his hair is salt-and-peppering it's way toward pale steel, but the look in his eye and cut of his tongue are as sharp as ever. "Said I'd put you in the ground, too. Get you a nice, old fashioned, shallow grave and leave you for coyote food."

Jesse tips his hat at the screen, and Reyes rolls his eyes. Soon he'll be declaring he's too old for this shit. "Think it's mighty nice the way you'd help me uphold my style even in death, jefe."

"Jesus." Reyes takes a slow inhale. Tired more than angry then, if he was mad he'd been taking practiced shots at Jesse's ego and insecurities, not bantering with gentle death threats. "What the hell do you have to report, McCree?"

"We got him."

Reyes meets Jesse's assurance with an arched eyebrow and single, slow clap. Not good, Jesse tugs at the brim of his hat and continues. "Fawkes took some damage. Angela still around?"

"She's in Sweden, your pet rat's gonna have to settle for one of the _other_ half a dozen medics over here." Reyes crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, one so old and beaten up Jesse is just praying he's on the line when the thing breaks out from under him. "I thought you were picking him up after he'd gotten shitfaced?"

"Ooh he was. We did. But apparently he don't need to be able to walk in a straight line to kick your ass six ways to Sunday. Junkrat tried to get the jump on him and our fella wasn't having any of it."

Reyes snorts, " _Or_ that little pyro doesn't know what the hell he's doing."

He probably isn't very wrong about that. If they were a bit less under the gun, Jesse would've liked at _least_ six months to run his two new recruits through their paces, instead they haven't quite gotten two. So while Junkrat and his buddy Roadhog function _almost_ cohesively as a unit if you stick them together, they mostly cause chaos among anyone else. But the kid had listened, petulantly, when Jesse told him he couldn't take in any grenades, and he'd taken his injuries on the chin with the best of em. 

Still, he's overextending. Jesse knows it, and Reyes had told him as much when he proposed the op. But it took Genji actual _years_ to come around on the idea and he isn't about to pass up the chance just because the timing could be better. 

"He'll get it, chief, don't you worry none."

Reyes narrows his eyes, drums his fingers across the edge of his desk. "Six months, McCree. Then your little charity projects get handed over to highest bidder." Jesse winces a bit at 'charity project' but he can't deny that the Australians being left holding the shortest possible stick plays a part in him wanting to give them a chance. 

"I got it. Anyway, aren't you up kinda late, old timer?"

"Fuck you," Reyes says, dry and with only a hint of bite. His hand reaches forward as he moves to end the call.

"And water that cactus! It's starting to look like-" The screen goes blank before Jesse can finish. He grins. "-A prickly dick."

That hadn't gone so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
> 
> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	3. Chapter 3

Hanzo awakes feeling as if his skull has been filled with shards of glass. Peeking in through the pain are vague memories of soaring through a cold night, clutching at his stomach as loops of intestines try to spill between his fingers. Wings had appeared against his will; out of necessity. His legs had been left behind, broken and scattered beside Genji's burning corpse.

He curls tightly into a ball, chest heaving even on shallow breaths as he tries to take inventory of everything wrong with him. His brain pulses against the inside of his skull and back of his eyeballs in rhythm with his erratically fluttering heartbeat, and a raw nausea chews away at his insides like a dog with a bone. He's torn between a need to vomit and a preference to move as little as possible. There are other little aches and pains -- in his neck, his hips, nose, knuckles -- from a night of uncomfortable sleep and whatever else he had gotten up to. Collectively, it just registers as Everything Hurts. 

This is unusual. He had learned his lesson about not drinking sufficient water with his sake years ago, and makes a consistent effort not to repeat the mistake. He rarely has hangovers, much less ones this severe. Hanzo remembers the night in disturbed blips: ordering a bottle of his favorite, the korokke not seeming quite as good as usual, the arrogant but flirtatious young gaijin he had met there once before, the surprising strength of his hands despite their apparent frailty. Then there had been the dark shapes in the early morning. Hanzo recalls being in a good mood, humming. He'd missed seeing them at first but did not miss with a sharp palm to the face the moment a stranger in the night grabbed him. The crunch of bone is so satisfying. 

The strange green glow shifting the shadows on alleyway walls had caught his attention before he saw the omnic. Then it was there, they scuffled, the creature did not even draw its blade on him and still won handily. The resulting blow to his head explained the sharp pain there.

Everything else comes back as a whole. The bright steel room, the cowboy, the offer, the threats, the admission. He also remembers the shadow lifting at the corner of his eye, steeling himself for the strike. That _also_ explains his suffering now. 

Hanzo peels his eyes open, blinking several times as the world resists coming into focus. 

He is on a cot on the floor of a small concrete room. Directly before him is an unlabeled plastic jug full of what he assumes to be water, and a couple of bright blue pills. He ignores both -- despite the tacky and vile texture on his tongue -- and looks past them to see a narrow steel sink and matching toilet.

That is it. The cot, the water, the amenities necessary for basic hygiene, nothing more. The cell itself is less than three meters across. One entire wall is taken up by heavy iron bars, one segment of which could slide over to allow entry. Past the bars he sees a similar cell, this one unlocked and stuffed full of musty office furniture. Hanzo stares at it for a long moment, blinking as if somehow the situation will shift into something less unexpectedly ridiculous.

He hasn't been delivered to an actual prison, then. Some holding cell of the cowboy's, undoubtedly illegal and unknown, given Overwatch's tendency toward such. He wonders if the iron bars are somehow part of the cowboy's image. Proper jails had abandoned them in favor of concrete rooms, steel doors, and digital monitoring decades ago.

Not that he doubts he is being monitored. 

Ah, there it is. Squinting about the room yields a simple smooth, beige disk set into the ceiling. At least one device is on him, then. Most likely monitoring video, audio, heat signature, and movement at the very least. If they have invested in more decent tech they can keep track of his heartbeat. All the more reason for his to slow down.

Hanzo's eyes slide close, and some of the pain instantly recedes. He breathes slowly and commands his body to not, under any circumstances, vomit.

Focusing on it does little to ease the urge, and gradually he becomes aware that his bladder has a pressing concern as well. With a quiet grumble Hanzo crawls, humiliated and ungainly to his feet, walks to the toilet with his back straight, refusing to lean on the wall. After relieving himself he sinks to his knees, gathers his hair in one hand -- the strands too thick from a night of smoke and sweat -- and braces himself above the seat with the other as he empties the entire contents of his stomach over the next several minutes.

When nothing more will come up he wipes his mouth, sinks back on his heels, and flushes. It had helped, at least. The bone may still be pulpy and raw from abuse but at the dog has moved on.

Hanzo considers the water and pills by his bed suspiciously, then rises to the sink instead. He has no idea right now if it would be more in the cowboy's nature to try and win him over with a kind gesture or use such a gesture to sneak an inconvenient poison into his system, but either way he has no interest in taking anything from the man.

He turns the knob on the sink, as far as he can one way, then as far as he can back. Nothing. Not a trickle. Just the fine grain slide of a faucet in need of maintenance. 

Hanzo hisses, turns the knob again, and then realizes the toilet is also not refilling. 

The showerhead finally catches his eye, it has a metal head little better than a hose, but it angles out of the wall above a narrow indent in the floor centering around a drain. He turns the shower handle more for thoroughness than because he has any hope at all.

No water.

Hanzo glares down at the shower handle, only not wanting to endure any unneeded noise stops him from cursing. So this is the cowboy's angle. He can take the offering or he can be left with the taste of bile on his tongue and the drilling pain behind his eyes.

Hanzo spits into the sink, twice, freeing himself of the vile taste as much as he can, then returns to the cot and sits cross legged, eyes closed, willing his body to right itself.

This cell is not standard to any he's ever heard of, though he has little first hand experience, he would wager this location belongs to Overwatch. Or -- what had the cowboy called it? -- Blackwatch? That sounded correct, and appropriately descriptive. Overwatch has been facing accusations of corruption for years, and public support is at an all time low. Perhaps that is due to the actions of this 'Blackwatch' branch, certainly the underbelly of the organization. They are brazen enough to be capturing Japanese citizens, flagrantly disregarding the international laws that supposedly limited the power of a behemoth like Overwatch. 

To Hanzo it is no surprise that a supposedly benevolent world power has abandoned its ethos over time. He had, like everyone of his generation, grown in a world that lauded the fearlessness, strength, and moral integrity of the heroes who had ended a crisis that threatened humanity. But he had also grown up a son of his father's empire, and held no illusions that Overwatch's victories were won only by the most ethical of means.

And _if_ the cowboy is telling the truth, and Overwatch has long been recruiting from the organizations they targeted, than the simplest truth is that they have never been the ideal heroes that everything from movies to news columns to manga memorialized them as.

That suits him just fine; Hanzo has no love lost for the organization. He had not been partial to dreams of heroism as a child and believes in the ignorance of the masses far more than he believes in the honor of the powerful.

Hanzo inhales and exhales at a deliberate rhythm, it helps to relax him and dull the pins behind his eyes. A wave of vertigo strikes him, he reaches out a hand to steady himself on the wall only to realize the sudden sense of falling was false. Concussed, almost certainly. 

There is no mirror in the cell, but gentle, tactile inspection reveals swelling and the dry crusts of blood at the back of his head. He also suspects a bruise is darkening his left cheek; he remembers the skinny peg-legged one managing to connect there, more of a flail than a real blow, as Hanzo had incapacitate him as quickly as possible in his inebriated state. His only other injuries are littered across his knuckles, which burn and sting in their dirty, untreated state, stiffening his hands.

All in all, not bad. He had expected the enemy to start torturing him by now, and the fact that they haven't is perplexing. Do they plan to torture him more slowly by limiting his water supply? It would be less dangerous and less effort on their part. Or is controlling his access to essentials simply part of a mind game to make him more compliant? If the offer to have him join their organization was genuine, they may not torture him at all, as bizarre as that idea is. If Overwatch did not come after him out of revenge of their fallen comrade, then the only other thing Hanzo can imagine they would want from him is the strength of his bow.

He _is_ an assassin, and Overwatch undoubtedly has a lengthy list of people they want dead. But could that really be what this was about? The Shimada-gumi would never have accepted a job from the organization that brought them to their knees, and he finds it difficult to imagine they can't find someone else to do their wet work.

_You have debts left unpaid._

The voice had been soft and electronic, with a heat buried under the hollow echo. It whispered those words in his ear, the omnic presence strangely intimate, before sending him into darkness. 

Hanzo has never considered omnics as beings capable of fury but he has no other word for the efficient brutality of the green-lit ninja as it honed in on him, crushed his body into a wall, and claimed it had come to collect on debts owed.

If omnics can have friends, Hanzo could believe he has killed one of its. 

Yet, the cowboy had shown none of that. Even as he played his hand, revealing himself to be not quite the fool Hanzo had assumed, he had mentioned nothing of debts. He had _acted_ nothing like a man out for revenge. 

Hanzo notices his breathing tightened when he stopped paying attention to it and purposefully evens it out again, counting heart beats. He does not think about how thirsty he is, how, even more then sating his thirst he would like a shower. If he meditates he can ignore the grime of sex and violence caking on his skin and starching his ruined clothes. 

He resolves to do nothing until someone speaks to him, and settles in for the lengthy test of wills to come.

\----------------

Gibraltar houses more space for Blackwatch than any other of their HQs, but even here it's no more than a few warrens tucked behind security doors and out-of-the-way entries beneath a much larger base. Blackwatch simply can't begin to rival Overwatch in size or resources, so they make do with slim pickings and really, no one complained. You didn't join Blackwatch for the amenities.

When Jesse yanks off his boots, holster, hangs up his hat and drops otherwise clothed into a bunk, it's one of half a dozen in a windowless room. Alone, because staff is scattered and it's late morning on this end of the world. If he crosses the hall when he wakes he can fix up some beans and eggs in a small kitchen, or wash off in the unisex showers next door. They have a few oddly located office spaces, an armory that is snazzier than anything else with a Blackwatch label, a couple of large server rooms housing their private network. Well out of the way are two cells, one of which Jesse had to clean out before he could dump an unconscious Hanzo inside. 

Jesse slips in and out of a doze for the better part of three hours. The transparent waft of smoke and a smile as sharp and wicked as a scythe flit in and out of his mind, oddly at contrast with the tactile memory of metal and carbon fiber vibrating against his side. 

Images of Sweden float to the surface, a chilly winter, Jesse too stubborn to put on more than his serape, stopping at a tiny shop to warm his hands and mouth on dim sum. The cyborg trailed behind him, sticking so close to Jesse's shadow the cowboy wondered if he wasn't trying to disappear in it, but his tone was rare congeniality, poking fun at Jesse for not eating local. Jesse'd had a hankering, he says, and he ain't all that picky unless it comes with a tortilla. Genji admits he'd never had Mexican that wasn't bastardized by Japan and Jesse assures him that American southwest bastardized it the best. He and Genji should take a trip to Sante Fe, he says, Jesse'd show him local, he says.

Genji laughs, reminds Jesse he can't eat, and neither of them can fly without the approval of their commanders and the organization's resources. Not very vacation friendly.

But maybe one day, he'd like to see more cowboys.

The exchange had stuck in Jesse's craw for days afterward before he sussed out why; he'd accidentally eaten his boot in public a dozen times before then, forgetting this or that about Genji's situation. It lead to a lot of short conversations. This'd been the first time the cyborg laughed it off.

Jesse forgets a hundred more times that Genji can't share his food, does not get hungry, that joining him for lunch is half pointless. It becomes a shared joke. 

\--------------

He rises at high noon, it turns out. The amusement of catching the bright 1200 lighting up the bunk's wall clock snaps him out of his doze. Jesse stretches until his hands touch the wall and his feet hang off the bed, relishing the slow series of pops in his spine.

He drops by the kitchen. There's a freshly baked plate of cookies left out, each one decorated with faces made out of chocolate chips, most of them cute pigs, others sad faces with Xs for eyes, one is a skull and Jesse leaves that in case Reyes spots it. Roadhog has been here. Jesse's more confident every day that he'll fit in just fine. 

Jesse grabs a pig cookie and heads to check on the prisoner.

"Howdy, Pallas."

In the tiny room down the hall from the cells and past a security door, a wall panel blinks to light, yellow logo spinning on a slate grey background. "Howdy, McCree." 

Pallas is the Blackwatch AI. Generically British sounding, pleasant but masculine, he'd been built off of a copy of Athena's neural net, but has no connection to her, or any other part of Overwatch. Pallas only responds to, assists, or cares for Blackwatch. Reyes wouldn't have kept around an AI with any other priorities.

"How's the wind blowing?" Jesse drops into the chair he'd hauled out of the storage cell, puts his feet up at the rickety desk that looks like it's been through a flood or two. Fishing for his smokes reveals that he forgot to grab any from his supplies, leaving him with just half a crushed pack of Hanzo's brand in his back pocket. He sighs and lights one up.

"Turbulently." A video appears on the wall across from him, showing riots in the streets of London, metallic bodies reflect warm firelight in the crowds. A couple of Angela's valkyrie suits flit across the screen as some Overwatch medics tend to wounded on both sides and drag them out of the conflict at their own risk. "Riots have broken out in the UK. Casualties currently low. The highest property damage is in London but tensions are increasing across the region." A still image appears, Ana working with London police . "Strike Second Amari landed yesterday and has been overseeing Overwatch intervention, but current metrics show Overwatch interference is primarily escalating the threat levels."

"Aw, shit." Jesse mutters, the grins wry when when Pallas responds with a clipped but emphatic _yes_. "Anyone behind all this?" 

"That information is above your pay grade. Clearance level black."

"Huh, must be someone real big and real ugly."

The AI makes a noise very much like a tired tsk. "Preventing you from extrapolation is not among my capabilities, duties, or desires, Agent McCree."

"You're a real peach, Pallas. Guess I'll work on that later then," Jesse murmurs, wondering who would bring it up first, him or Reyes. As far as he knows, the omnic uprisings across the globe are largely in the hands of Overwatch and their local governments, at the moment. Civil unrest isn't solved by the likes of Blackwatch. But civil unrest often has corporate, criminal, or political origins and sometimes the person fanning the flames needed a bullet between their eyes; that's just the way of it. 

But keeping track of who has reason to destabilize England isn't his job. Not yet, anyway.

He looks around for his ashtray, realizes he hasn't brought one, and taps his cigarette off into a desk drawer instead. "Anything else?"

"Plenty."

"Read me the headlines."

"If you'd check your inbox, you would see a daily report compiling all of this information, customized to your level of interest, Agent McCree."

"Fine, read me that then. C'mon Pallas, you know I hate screens."

So with a tired sigh that McCree suspects is just a recording of his boss doing the same, the AI gives him the lowdown. Suspicious level of omnic activity in Russia but no hard facts and it hasn't even hit the news cycle yet. Uprising in Brazil that had been raging for weeks finally gave Vishkar the boot, loud and strong enough that the UN got involved. Looks like Vishkar might actually have lost their shot at the favelas for a while, but their popularity is still high elsewhere in the world, and Vishkar was already spinning the story that it was the fault of bad management and miscommunication. 

Deadlock is moving again. Pallas always keeps him up on the remnants of his old gang, even though they haven't achieved anything worthy of global notoriety in years. Intel suggests they might be working with a few younger gangs south of the border. After Overwatch had all but ground Deadlock to dust years ago, anyone left had been tainted. No one wants to work with any organization that so clearly has Overwatch's attention. But that had been a while back and Jesse could guess they might looking to make some new friends. 

There was plenty else going on. The massive omnic that lived in the East China Sea is making a ruckus again. Overwatch's had some agents stationed there for years now to help the South Korean government come up with a way to take it out, but they'd only ever managed to push it back. A medical journal released a report confirming what everyone already knew about the effects of the omnium explosion down under, and Overwatch's own analysis verifies that while various parties said they are doing various stuff, in reality almost everyone affected had long ago either died or figured out how to take care of themselves. 

Pallas is set to continue, probably dive into telling him Numbani's got a thriving underground organ trade or something, when Jesse gives in and drills out his second cigarette onto the corner of the desk. "Alright, enough of that. I get the picture. World's still a shitshow is what you're telling me."

"Isn't it always?"

Sometimes Jesse wonders if Pallas actually gets tired of this all too, or if he's just programmed to appear to empathize. He never asks; seems kinda rude to bug an AI about how much free will he's really got. "Feels like it didn't used to be, so much." He flicks the top of the now half-empty pack of cigarettes back and forth between his fingers, "How's our guest doing?"

The pictures of junkers building homes from irradiated materials clear off the screen to be replaced by two angles on Hanzo's cell. One from within; providing a slightly nauseating fisheye from the ceiling, and one from outside the bars that stays locked on Hanzo's movements. Hanzo is sitting on his cot, cross legged, either asleep or meditating. Now and then Jesse catches Genji doing the latter, locked in the same pose.

"Huh, he been like that the whole time?"

"He woke at 0723 and vomited."

"You're a real stickler for details Pallas, I like that."

"Thank you. He then ascertained the water is disabled for his cell and went to where he sits now. At 1156 he sent you a message."

Jesse stills the hand that had been twitching the cigarette lid back and forth incessantly. "He what now?"

The timestamps on the videoes shift, and he sees Hanzo rising from his cot. Hanzo stalks to the bars, scowls through them, looking left, then right. Nothing about still wearing the clothes he'd gotten his ass handed to him in the night before impedes the way the man radiates pedigree. Hanzo shouts, "Cowboy!" and his sharp, commanding tone slaps Jesse through the recording so sharp that he jumps. 

Jesse feels himself flush. At least _one_ of them has dignity, shit. 

Hanzo stays by the bars for a long moment, glowering, a compact stormcloud crackling lightning visible from a mile off. Then he turns and heads back into the cell. Jesse catches himself freeing a held breath.

"Not much of a message."

"That was not it," Pallas assures.

Back in the video, Hanzo stops in front of the jug of water on the floor, which Jesse only just notices is untouched. The yakuza boss bends to retrieve the water and something next to it; the pills, probably. He walks toward the toilet, and Jesse catches on real quick.

"He ever drink any of that, Pallas?" He asks, watching as Hanzo drops the pills, then pours the water into the toilet. He stares directly at the ceiling camera as he does. The fisheye of the lense makes the rest of the room seem warped out around Hanzo's challenging dark eyes.

"He did not."

Jesse shakes his head, huffs, feels strangely vindicated. Hadn't overestimated that pride after all. "Stubborn fella."

\-----------------------

With nothing better to do, Hanzo focuses on meditation for what he suspects to be close to six hours. Until the exercise has gone through all possible merits of relaxation and cycled back to exhausting again. It reminds him of some of the stricter tutelage of his childhood, where he learned to be still for hours on end before he was ten. He would be raised to the leader of a criminal empire, yes, but also an assassin of the highest caliber. Noise is a weapon; silence, an ally. He's grateful for that education now. If Overwatch's plan is to starve him food, water, and human contact, he is certainly better prepared to face that then most.

Though, his _body_ would prefer a better timing for it.

Eventually he lets himself doze to pass the time. He wakes fitfully after a half-dream of Watanabe-san, one of the clan's elders, telling him they had recovered Genji's body and were preparing for the funeral. Then falls immediately into another of Watanabe-kun, whose birth Hanzo witnessed as a child, telling a small gathering of the remaining Shimada-gumi that Hanzo's body had not been recovered. Yuka-san, solemn with uncharacteristic cruelty says he had probably just finally drank himself to death somewhere. The Kudo twins whisper in the crowd. They wonder why he had taken so long. 

When Hanzo starts awake from that one he decides he hardly needs any more rest and gets to his feet. He strips off his shirt and folds it; instantly feeling better once free from the soiled garment, and almost considers removing his pants as well.

He carefully stretches, mouth slanting into a hard line rather than allowing a wince as his body protests, then begins to move through an old and easy exercise, shifting from one stance to another. His joints feel jerky and full of protest, but as he repeats the movements by route they gradually relax. When vertigo and nausea threaten to send him heading back to the toilet he holds his form and waits for it to pass before continuing. After ten repetitions of this exercise he moves on to another, then another, and when he feels himself beginning to sweat he stops. 

It's good he had already poured the water out, or he would be tempted to accept the cowboy's "help" now. Working the stiffness out of his body eased some of his smaller aches but it only makes his desire for something to drink more acutely obvious. It is still only a discomfort; affects at times dizzying if not dire. In another day he might regret his prideful choice.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time. He lets out a faint huff, a laugh so soft no one would call it that. A self effacing smile curves just the corners of his mouth.

Hanzo returns to his cot to wait; for the cowboy, for the omnic, for a slow and miserable few days of dehydration, whatever.

\------------

The soft hiss of a door opening is barely louder than his own breath, but distinctly sharper, colder, and Hanzo catches it immediately, waking from a restless sleep. By the time he hears the first heavy footfall mixed with a characteristic jingle he has sat up, and by the second he is raking limp strands of hair out of his face. He curls one knee in front of him and decides not to stand unless the cowboy does something to earn it.

Neither the lighting in the room nor the temperature have changed since when he first awoke, and Hanzo realizes he has completely lost track of what time it might be. All he has is the complaints of his body, and judging by the throbbing in his head, which had abated for a time only to return with increasing intensity, he would wager it's been over a day since he was first attacked in the streets of Hanamura.

Seven steps bring the cowboy just within view, four more plant him directly across Hanzo, half a step from the bars between them. He's wearing that same comical cowboy hat, but his gun is absent. He carries a brown paper bag in one arm and Hanzo can smell warm spices past the scent of cigarettes that hovers around the cowboy. "Howdy, Mister Shimada-san." The American's gaze shifts over to Hanzo's left shoulder, and Hanzo feels it skate across his tattoos in a way others have a thousand times before. "Nice ink."

Hanzo snorts, a quiet sound, unmissable in the quieter cell. Where before the Overwatch-- _Blackwatch_ Agent's congeniality had seemed innocuous enough, now the innocent grin on that wide mouth indicates only mockery. " _Mister Shimada-san_ ," he echos, swallows when his voice is unusually raspy, "do you think if you double-down on idiocy I'll mistake you for a fool twice?"

"Shoot, that mean you aren't taking me for one now?" The cowboy's humor is good, as before, relaxed. Hanzo wonders if he has an ounce of dignity to defend.

Hanzo pauses on his answer, appraising the cowboy again from where he sits. "You _appear_ as a fool in every respect."

"Buuut…?" Blatantly wheedling. The spread of a slow cocky smile.

" _And_ ," Hanzo corrects. "I find the utter lack of pride that permits you to play that part pathetic." The cowboy's expression takes a downward turn, Hanzo smirks and leans forward against his knee. "Now, why are you here?"

There's a beat, perhaps which the cowboy uses to consider walking out after Hanzo's slight, but instead he lets out a breath and rustles the bag in his hand. Hanzo has been too focused on his thirst to think seriously about food, but now that he can smell it, his stomach aches to remind him of its hollowness. "Decided I didn't much like this game."

"Game?" Hanzo murmurs, there's several he can think of but in all of them this is an unexpected move.

"The one where I see how miserable I gotta make you before you start playing nice."

"I believe your United Nations calls it 'torture', cowboy-san." Hanzo wonders if the Blackwatch agent will balk at the term, so many do, but all his correction yields is a one shouldered shrug, like Hanzo pointed out something only faintly embarrassing.

"Not claiming I'm above any of that. But you're not gonna get any tears out of me, Shimada-san. I got a file on you thicker than a Texas steak and near as bloody." 

How colorful. Hanzo ignores it, focused on pinning down the cowboy's angle. "So, you believe I am deserving of torture."

"Well, dunno about that. Justice is as slippery and oversold as snake oil. But I don't think that route really gets either of us what we want." The cowboy reaches into the bag as he speaks, pulls out a water bottle glistening with condensation.

Hanzo allows his gaze to only flicker across it before returning to the cowboy's face, but when the man holds the bottle out without a word he pauses only a moment before getting to his feet. For a moment vertigo strikes him, and and he's forced to press fingertips to the wall for balance. When his vision stops swimming he catches the cowboy's gaze locked at his navel. Staring at the scar there, no doubt; that was common as well. 

The cowboy jerks his gaze up to Hanzo's face and he lets it pass by unremarked on, instead closing the distance to accept the water still offered. It's delightfully cold in his hand. "And what is it you want?"

"Me?" The cowboy is flustered. Maybe not the scar after all. But when he continues, it's with a rolling build of warmth in his tone and expression that Hanzo is just as suspicious of as the water. "I want you to join the team."

Hanzo's fingers halt in the process of untwisting the plastic bottle cap. Yesterday he had laughed, now he can only squint with incredulity, as if he can somehow focus the American's nonsense into clarity. "Are you still making that ridiculous claim?"

"Yeap."

Hanzo snorts, untwists the cap, holds the water back out to the cowboy, passing it through the bars. "Drink."

The cowboy's bushy eyebrows almost touch the band of his hat, but he takes the water without complaint, downs a healthy mouthful, and hands it back. "Suspicious fella, aren't ya?"

"You assaulted and captured me under no authority and are imprisoning me illegally." Hanzo makes no attempt to dilute the tired acid in his voice, perhaps if his pulse would stop pounding at the inside of his skull he might be bothered. He absently wipes the mouth of the bottle off, which for whatever reason makes the cowboy chuckle. 

The water is almost painful on his palette, flowing into the dried cracks in his lips and tongue. He tracks it's cooling passage down his throat and into his stomach. Decorum suggests he stop after a generous sip, but the ache in his body has him drinking down half the bottle on one breath. From the corner of his eye he catches the cowboy staring at his throat.

When he stops the water is more than half gone and he takes a deep breath, relishing instantly feeling more himself. "Now," he murmurs, turning his attention back to the cowboy. "What is it you think _I_ want."

"Er," there it is again, an uncharacteristic stutter, like in only a few moments the American has lost track of the conversation at hand, "I mean, you want outta that cage."

Hanzo clucks his tongue, "Did this truly work on you?" Something about the cowboy's earlier admissions have been bothering him. "A enemy threatened you with imprisonment so you chose to join him?"

The cowboy tightens up, like armor plating coming together, interlocking around a vulnerability. "That's not quite how it went."

Ah, there, finally. He doesn't smile but it is tempting. "Then tell me, cowboy-san. How did it go?"

Two beats this time, Hanzo can see him considering it; weighing the price of a story preferably left untold. Hanzo doesn't cajole him, and it is the cowboy who breaks eye contact, finding refuge in taking someone else out of the bag. A porcelain bowl, a plastic fork, and a paper towel on top that hides the source of the genuinely mouth watering smell. It is a decent distraction. "Don't think that's a story I'll ever tell sober, Shimada-san. But I take it you don't think it'll work on you."

He drags his eyes away from the food, sneers at the American's suggestion. "The Shimada-gumi are my family. I have paid far greater prices than my freedom for them already." Sober, he can say those words without stumbling, and if the cowboy once again foolishly brings up Genji he will not falter. "Your tactics are little more than insults."

But he does not. Instead the cowboy appears taken aback, and Hanzo wonders again if this whole farce hasn't been, in the eyes of a misguided and arrogant American, sincere. Is the loyalty of Americans earned so easily? Or just in the case of this man? And if so, why did he still work for the organization that bought him after all these years? 

Questions for another time, the cowboy is holding the bowl through the bars of the jail, tilting it so it will fit. "Well," there's a scuff in his voice, some emotion Hanzo cannot place, "guess I'll have to think on that. In the meantime, consider this a peace offering."

"You cannot 'make peace' with someone you have imprisoned." But Hanzo takes the bowl anyway, lifts it to find a mess of what appears to be egg, beans, and rice that is smudged red with spice that has rubbed off onto everything else. It looks disgusting, smells spicy, and under any other circumstances he would have looked for a way to decline politely. Hanzo finds himself wondering what chef with an ounce of pride would feed this even to a criminal and blinks up at the large man on the other side of the bars. "Did you... make this?"

The cowboy plucks at the brim of his hat; he finds something interesting about the wall just behind Hanzo. "Sure did. I ain't much of a chef but I feed myself alright." Apparently, Hanzo's confusion is obvious. The cowboy looks at his face and lets out a soft gaffaw. "Dunno how you think things run around here, but we don't exactly keep a kitchen staff. Or a jailing one. If I want to lock someone up it's my job to keep em alive. So for now, comparde, you eat what I eat."

Hanzo feels oddly light headed, caught buzzing between confusion and hunger and thirst and the headache. He holds the bowl back out to the cowboy. 

"What, you'd rather starve yourself than--"

"No." Hanzo's words are soft and clipped. "Eat."

Confusion gives way to understanding, each passing swiftly across the man's rough features. He takes the fork, makes a show of having a bite, grins and returns the fork to the bowl. "Personally though, I could eat that every day."

"Hm." Hanzo pauses, turns away, resists the urge to let out an insufferably loud sigh, and turns back. His bow is so slight the American likely doesn't even recognize it. "Thank you for the food."

He does however, recognize basic manners, apparently. At least enough to be startled by them. Hanzo tsks irritably as the man's eyes widen and a grin splits his face. The cowboy's teeth look very white amid all of his brown features. "Sure thing." Hanzo nods and moves to return to his cot again, but the cowboy continues. "Oh, there was one more thing."

As he turns back the American holds out one huge paw, something held under his palm. Warily, he shifts the half emptied water bottle to under his other arm then holds out a hand. Something light and faintly grainy drops into his open palm and he stares at it. 

It is a large cookie, with slightly melted, miniature chocolate chips arranged in the shape of a pig. He blinks. He looks up at the cowboy and blinks again.

"Roadhog made that one, not me." He supplies, smile still wide and bright as parting clouds. 

"Roadhog." Hanzo murmurs, looking down at the cookie again. 

"Yeah, you'll meet him eventually."

The Shimada-gumi had sometimes needed to take prisoners over the years. Depending on the situation, their importance, and the Shimada's respect for their family, they might have been treated with care and respect, or they might have been tortured and humiliated. On rare occasions, it was both. 

Americans, it seems, have their own methods. 

He nods and carefully places the paper towel back on top of the hot food, then the cookie on top of that, keeping them separate. "He has a better eye for aesthetics than you. You may pass along my thanks."

The cowboy is silent as Hanzo returns to sit on his cot. He sets the cookie and water aside, puts the slightly soiled napkin on one thigh, and looks up from the bowl. The cowboy starts, caught again, though at what Hanzo is not entirely sure. But then he is backing away from the bars, tilting his hat down in a nod goodbye.

"Yanno what, I'll do that. How about you enjoy your grub, Shimada-san. I'll be back in a lil bit with some other stuff you're gonna want."

Hanzo leans forward, moving to rise again as the cowboy makes an unexpectedly swift exit. "Wait! The water--"

"Oh yeah!" A big hand waves without turning around toward him. "Already back on, meant to tell you that."

And then he is gone, saving Hanzo the trouble of deciding if he owed the man thanks for simple decency just because it comes so unexpectedly.

\---------------

The problem with spicy food is that it makes his nose run.

He eats it all, barely tasting it, though what what does stick to his tongue is delicious. Hanzo suspects his pallet may be biased in favor of literally anything not flavored with rot at this point. The water bottle is refilled and downed twice, and between the food and the water Hanzo feels bloated by the time he is done. 

As he wipes his nose off on the abused paper towel and considers if he is going to need to turn his shirt into a handkerchief, Hanzo chides himself. It is foolish to assume that the cowboy's sudden change in mood would last, that it represented more than a change in tactics. He should have saved something for later, if needed. He should also make the best of this opportunity while it lasts. 

The cookie rests on the corner of the cot, he has saved that much, at least.

In perhaps an hour the cowboy returns, this time loaded down with a mid sized duffle bag. He drops it outside the cell with a large whump, and Hanzo gets to his feet readily to see what the American has brought. He still has a moment of vertigo when he rises, but food and water have significantly calmed his headache.

"Alright there, Shimada-san?" The cowboy asks after catching Hanzo balancing himself on the wall again.

"I am fine." He stops before the bars, peering down into the open zipper of the duffle but unable to make out much beyond some fabrics.

The first things to emerge is a dingy blue towel, threadbare but apparently clean, and what is certainly a pale grey, one-size fits all prison jumpsuit. Hanzo feels his features scrunch up in displeasure at the latter. 

The cowboy chuckles. "Not as fancy as what we picked you up in, but I reckon you can make the look work, Shimada-san." He passes both items through the bars, and Hanzo reluctantly accepts them. "If you want to wear anything clean, anyway."

Hanzo feels a sigh coming and waits until it passes. The cowboy shoves a second jumpsuit at him, he takes it and begins folding each article separately. Holding the clothing out it looks massive, he wonders how it will even stay on him. "Underwear?"

"Er. Pardon?" The cowboy pauses, halfway between pulling some domed device out of the bag. 

Hanzo _also_ pauses, then turns to look precisely at the American. Everything about this is humiliating, so at the very least he would like to burn that sensation into the other man as well. "Under garments?" He asks, voice cool and precise. "If your intention is to provide clean clothes you are missing an important ...article. Do you actually have any idea what you're doing, Cowboy-san?"

" _Haw_ ," the cowboy flushes, plucks at his hat. _Awkwardly_. That was the meaning of that gesture, insecurity. Hanzo narrows his eyes and the American lifts his prosthetic hand defensively. "Awright look, you caught me. Haven't kept a lot of prisoners in this exact scenario before. Anyway, I'll take care of it in the morning."

Hanzo tsks but decides not to push when the American is being cooperative. He finishes folding the clothes and puts them in a stack at his feet. "In the morning, what time is it?"

"Oh! Yeah, got that covered." Shifting the mysterious domed object to his left arm, the cowboy retrieves a small digital clock from the bag. It's lime-green numbers read 0426. "It's got an alarm too, figured you're the kinda guy who likes to get up at five sharp."

That had been true, once. He accepts the clock. "What is that?" He nods at the device in the cowboy's arms. 

"Biotic emitter, older model but it should do the job."

Hanzo leans closer to the bars to peer at it. The biotic dome is like half an old fashioned light bulb; a clear plastic case around half a dozen golden rods making a hexagon in the center. It looks delicate but the cowboy handles it with no particular care. "The same as the technology in your bullets?"

"More or less. This has got more power in favor but it's a bit slower and less handy." The dome will not fit between the bars so the cowboy shoves it under a larger slat at the base of the door. Hanzo retrieves it, turns the device over slowly in his hands. It is light, almost airy, but seems sturdy. After an encouraging nod from the cowboy, Hanzo warily flips the switch on the rim of the device.

It does not flash, like he expects, but begins to buzz softly in his hands. A golden fog like the one he had seen when he shot the cowboy begins to form in tendrils between the rods, and as the dome fills a warm light spills onto his skin. _Very_ warm. Hanzo can imagine if he stays under its effects too long he would feel like a lizard basking on a summer's day. Or a dragon.

He hums and turns it off.

"Er." The cowboy rubs at his own bicep, watching Hanzo with uncertain expectation. "Anyway, that should straighten out most've the knocks you took. It ain't that useful for internal injuries but give it an hour or so and you'll feel like you can run from here to the border."

"I am sure I already can." Hanzo sets the biotic dome down next to the clothing, the towel. "Do you have toiletries?"

The cowboy grins, ready this time, and Hanzo is pleased above all of these other _luxuries_ to see a bag with a comb, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and paste. A big hand slips them through the bars and he accepts them with a genuine sense of relief. And apparently, an unintended smile. The cowboy laughs, "Look at that, I'd think you care about washing up more than filling up."

Hanzo wipes the expression from his face, then rolls his eyes. He takes the toiletries and the rest of his windfall to the cot for something to busy himself with. "This has been one of the most revolting days of my life."

A faint snort comes from the cowboy's direction, then a pause, then a chuckle. "Aw hell, you aren't even yanking my chain, are you?" _Bold_. Hanzo turns sharply to the man, eyebrows lifted, he can't think of any translation isn't euphemistic. The cowboy is caught, raises his hands again, laughs. "Sorry. Er, it means you're serious."

Oh, is that really it? Given the eyes the man has for him, Hanzo isn't sure he believes him. Hanzo gives the cowboy a doubting look but doesn't comment, instead opening the prized bag of toiletries. Behind the bars the cowboy coughs, shuffles his noisy boots. "Anyway uh, don't worry about it none. I don't even have to buy the soap, Overwatch's got a million of em. Take all the showers you want."

The soap is in his hands now, Hanzo rubs his thumb against the waxy surface absently. "Does Overwatch have a million bottles of shampoo, as well?"

"Shampoo?" The cowboy scratches at his jaw, thinking. "Somewhere, probably…"

"Then I would like one of those as well."

Another chuckle, indulgent, like Hanzo is some kind of novelty. "I'm not running a hotel here, Shimada-san. What's the matter with soap?"

Honestly, what a stupid question. Hanzo frowns at the cowboy from across the cell, then paces toward him. "It leaves build up." He reaches between the bars and beckons the cowboy to lean closer.

He does, with so little hesitation Hanzo wonders if somehow this is another move the cowboy plans to turn back on him. Hanzo's tempted to yank his ear, put an arm around his neck and choke him through the bars just to test it.

But every one of those ideas is foolish. Escaping this place would take far more than simply killing the jailer. 

So instead he captures a lock of the cowboy's hair between finger and thumb. The strands are both thicker and softer than he expected, but dry, and certainly not silky. "There, you see? Mangy."

The cowboy has gone still as stone, the left corner of his mouth curves up in erratic jerks. "Er. I think it's alright."

"Mangy must suit you then, Cowboy-san. But it does not suit me." He yanks sharply on the hair and watches all of the muscles of the Americans neck and shoulders seize up. "Bring me shampoo."

The cowboy steps back like Hanzo has burned him, caught acting like nothing's happened as Hanzo openly scrutinizes his responses. "I"ll, er. I'll think about it." He pats himself down in search of something, cigarettes, Hanzo suspects, then stops. Finds a new subject. "But I think before I do that, you can start using my name."

"Hoh," Hanzo lifts his eyebrows, amused. That was one of the poorest attempts at demanding respect he has seen. "Can I?"

The big man huffs, expelling the fluster from his body. He manages to sound annoyed. "I don't think it's too much to ask, _Shimada-san_."

"Very well. Would you like to share it with me?"

"Er. Hang on. I _know_ I told you my name."

Hanzo clicks his tongue, smirks, watches the cowboy mentally replaying their interactions until now. He even has the grace to look embarrassed. "...aw shit. You're right." His tone turns sulky. "You might've asked."

"Hah. Watching you fumble your way towards manners is the only entertainment I have now."

"Don't remember you ever introducing yourself neither."

"To the man imprisoning me? Clearly you had that information already."

The cowboy lifts his hands in surrender, and Hanzo relishes in his small victories. "Sheesh, alright, enough of that. It's Jesse McCree." He tips his hat, as if in greeting. As if they are pleasant acquaintances. "I don't care if you wanna call me Jesse-san or McCree-san or just McCree, which is what just about everyone around here uses."

Hanzo frowns, softly forming the strange syllables. "Mah kree…."

"There you go." The cowboy grins, encouraging. "And what about Shimada-san, that the right way to call you?"

"Yes, that is fine." Hanzo turns back to the cowboy with his arms folded and inquires like a curious thought only just occurred to him. "….How long did you say you have been affiliated with this organization? Eighteen years?"

If the cowboy is surprised by the turn of conversation, he barely shows it. "Yeah, that's right. Long damn time."

"Hmmm. And how old when you were strong armed into joining?"

"Bout sixteen, I reckon?"

"So, you are thirty-four now?"

"Thirty-five." The cowboy hooks a thumb in his belt, tries not to look defensive and fails. "Why the sudden interest, Shimada-san?"

"Aah, it is no matter." Hanzo turns away, walks back toward the shower head. It's easier than tempering the smug tilt of his mouth. "It just appears I am one year older than you."

"Oh," the cowboy sounds lost. "Huh."

Hanzo turns the shower head on. Lukewarm water begins to splatter out in a rush, streaking the cement at his feet a shade darker. He bounces the bar of soap in one hand and speaks just loud enough to be heard over the water. 

"Thank you for the supplies. You may go for now. I will have questions about your organization at lunch, McCree-kun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	4. Chapter 4

Genji has not had a nightmare since he became a cyborg. 

Even before that, he had never been prone to them, but when they did occur they were almost exclusively ridiculous. Once he'd nearly suffocated to death inside a man-eating taiyaki, it's bready fish lips swallowing him into sweltering cave of sweet red bean paste. He had been eight. Hanzo had woken Genji from a tangle of sweaty sheets, his brother's soft features knit into concern even his voice conveyed something closer to irritation. Genji better not have woken him over something stupid again. Genji lied, said he'd dreamed about assassins sent from father's enemies, and so mollified, his older brother squeezed him on the shoulder and assured him that together they could handle any attacks.

Later, Genji told his father the truth. Noboru Shimada had been stout and slightly round; made of thick cords of muscle under a thin layer of fat. He had a weak spot for foreign wines that Genji would later share and Genji's stupid dreams never failed to make his father rock back and laugh, clear as a bell. It would be years before Genji could reconcile this image of him with that of a man who would casually profit off the exploitation of their countrymen.

After Genji nearly died, in the weeks spent either comatose or drugged, he dreamed frequently. Sometimes memories from his childhood, often epic sprawling tales of his ascent to greatness, like something out of a manga. They were much more pleasant than anything he experienced while awake, where Dr. Ziegler would greet him with a false cheer that hurt him in places he no longer truly possessed. 

So he slept. In dreams he was human, a robot, a monster. It didn't matter, because in the dreams he was not frightened or angry. Dreams didn't have to make sense. 

Eventually Genji realized his cybernetic body was protecting him. The fear, the anxiety, the racing pulse, and paralyzed breath that cause a nightmare never occurred as he slept in his carefully regulated synthetic form. Even if he dreamed of his body burning with an ethereal blue fire, dragons roaring into his ears until they burst and he could only hear his own blood thudding through his dying body, his mechanical heart pumped even and calm throughout the night. 

He doesn't have nightmares.

So, he quite enjoys sleep.

Genji catnaps periodically when he has no other duties, or between them when he does. He prefers the quiet of night, and does the majority of his training exercises after dusk. This leaves the day for reading (often), socialization (depending on who is around), and sleeping (to escape the exhausting train of his own thoughts).

Except, since knowing his brother was on the base, tucked away somewhere in Blackwatch's halls, sleep has refused to come relieve him. He lies on a bunk in the Overwatch barracks, listening to the rhythmic _snk_ of shuriken rolling between his wrist and fingers. All of his body's sensors are dimmed, his green glow off, but sadly there is no function to slow the tireless pace of his _mind_.

Hanzo is not five minutes away. He could talk to his brother again, for the first time in eight years.

He wonders what it would mean, if Hanzo knew he was alive. Who he is and what he has become. If Hanzo knew Genji is the one who had systematically reduced their clan to skeleton of its former self. 

Revenge has taught Genji how to sate hunger in a body that can not eat. Justice is a justification; he did not learn altruism from his own losses, but the assurance that his family was one of criminals allowed him to destroy what his brother had chosen over him. Every time he doubted his choices he would remember that what was left of his human body could be fit into a grocery bag.

Genji stretches his arm out, watches shuriken rise and fall out of his arm like a small dance, he takes one and spins it around his metal fingers. 

Hanzo had killed his brother, that brother had killed their family. Both of them are now pathetic and unworthy, but any regrets he has are almost a decade old. Maybe things could have been different, once, but since that night it feels like they have been caught in one long, slow, inevitable collision. Two stones shattering against each other. Two dragons who have forgotten how to use anything but their teeth. 

He wonders if Hanzo would hate him. If he would want revenge the way Genji had. The reminder that Genji once again has something to lose arrests him so badly the shuriken still. He curls his fingers tightly around the sharp edges. 

He wonders… he wonders if Hanzo would be glad. 

And that is a thought he can't complete. Sometimes he sees it in dreams, his brother welcoming him, opening his arms. Dreams can no more move him to elation than they can to terror, so it's harmless, really. But while awake he has no fantasies of this. He doesn't know if Hanzo regrets what he did, but Genji is certain he achieved his revenge at the cost of ever being a part of his family again.

A quiet beep sounds in Genji's internal comm and cuts through his thoughts. It's McCree. He wants to know if Genji wants to 'grab some grub'. Genji affirms, they agree to meet at the north entrance. The link goes silent.

"Thank god," Genji murmurs, wry and quiet. 

\-----------

 _"McCree-kun_." Genji bends over the table, trying to stifle his amusement but still _howls_ in a way Jesse has never heard. Not his usual quiet chuckle, or the sometimes high, sharp bark Jesse has surprised out of him a few times. He laughs like _McCree-kun_ is the funniest damn thing he's ever heard. 

Jesse suspects he should be offended somehow. There ain't no way this isn't at his expense, but he can't even find it in him to be make like he's miffed. If this is what Hanzo's stuck-up Japanese brand of insult shook out of his friend, well, Jesse'd line up to take those hits all day. 

He shakes his head and takes a bite of his pizza while Genji gently bounces his visor against the small wooden table between them. The cyborg's echoing cackles trail off, being exchanged for progressively softer giggles until the laughter finally ceases. 

They're at a nice little local joint, outside and with a half decent view of the ocean. It's post noon, and though it isn't a place prone to crowds to begin with, the area is extra empty at the moment. Genji has donned a dark green hoodie and a loose fitting pair of jeans; his usual civvies for going out among the public. With the hood pulled over his head most passersby wouldn't take a second glance. If anything, Jesse's cowboy hat draws far more attention. 

"Well," Jesse says once Genji's calmed down. "You gonna explain the joke? Or does it work better if I never get it?"

"S-Sorry, I..." Genji's shoulders hunch up, stifling another wave of laughter. "Hanzo he ah… He's being a prick."

"Yeah, I gathered that much. Get the feeling that's kinda his default."

Though the laughter has died, Genji's voice still remains light. He folds his arms on the table between them. "Because you are enemies, yes." 

"Aw," Jesse scratches his chin, finds a bit of red sauce in his beard and rubs it off onto his knuckles. "Here I thought we were making friends."

Genji snorts, briefly, derisive. "Your hopes are soaring high awfully quick. Calling you McCree-kun _could_ mean that you are friends, but really he is just rubbing your face in the fact that he is a year older than you." Jesse coughs, stuck between a laugh and a swallow, and pounds on his sternum. Genji nudges McCree's beer across the table. "See? Didn't I tell you? He's always been like this." There's a beat, the cyborg clicks his metal fingers against the wooden table top, stares down at them in distraction. When he continues his voice has receded slightly. "He's ridiculous."

When Jesse can finally speak it's still a wheeze through a throat trying to seize up for a coughing fit. "Still, it ain't bad considerin' the first time we met he tried to put a bullet in me."

"He will still try. My brother is an expert tactician," he looks up at McCree, his speaks more slowly, as if afraid the words won't sink into him otherwise, "and that applies to more than just how to win physical confrontations. Don't take him lightly, McCree."

Jesse remembers a muscular hand tugging sharply on his hair, the imperious look in coffee brown eyes and sly upward tilt to Hanzo's mouth as he made his demands. If Jesse had half a goddamn lick of sense he'd be spitting fire at how the yakuza boss so blatantly looked down on him. 

He might not be a genius strategist or any of that, but if he'd learned anything from the boss it was that nothing good comes from letting folks get under your skin. And so far that'd served him pretty well with Hanzo. He could sense Hanzo getting prickly over not being able to get a rise out of him. Except, maybe the yakuza boss had found a way under his skin after all. 

After Jesse'd left the cell early this morning he went to take a cool shower, found there was in fact shampoo under the sinks that he'd passed up noticing a million times. He washed up his usual way, forced aside ideas of Hanzo doing the same by turning over the situation in the UK and the intel Pallas wouldn't give him, and when he left tucked bottle of shampoo into a pocket to ply the prisoner with later.

He takes a long swig of his beer and reaches out to pat Genji on his metal hand, hopefully somewhat reassuring. "Didn't make it this far to get done in by your high falutin brother."

Genji curls his hand up, pulls it back, spreads it flat again. "High falutin."

"Means he thinks his farts smell like rose petals."

That stirs another laugh out of Genji, and Jesse turns the conversation away from Hanzo to help dissipate the cyborg's anxiety. Unfortunately, talk of work only brings up a different kind of tension. The UN is investigating Overwatch's actions of the last decade, the handling of the Shimada-gumi among them. While many members of Overwatch are lauded, celebrated, given time on television and featured in papers, there were also those like Genji, ones who stories were best kept out of the public eye.

"I'm on lockdown for at least a month," Genji complains, morose and without any bite. "The Commander says we're being watched too closely and tensions with omnics are too high to risk me ending up anyone's headliner right now."

"Well shit." Jesse sucks on his first smoke of the day. Cigarillos again, better than those skinny sticks Hanzo smokes and without the unfortunate side effect of reminding him of how the man looked smoking them. "You know Jack's just looking out for you."

"I know it means I've become a liability to Overwatch." The words are low and tight, like a dark secret.

"Think you're jumping the gun a tad there, pardner." Jesse pauses to take a look around, verifying that no one is around to overhear them. "Look, world's a complex place but everyone wants it to be simple. Morrison's always trying to give 'em that. If certain types hear your story they might not get it, might tell it wrong. Same with me." 

"Are you on lockdown, then?"

"Er..." Jesse scuffs the heel of his palm up the side of his neck. "Well, haven't gotten any new orders for a bit, but you know, been busy with this other thing. Training up new and recruits and all."

"Your team," Genji murmurs, thoughtful. His chin rests in an upturned palm and his gaze turns out toward the horizon. "Do you think he's coming around? Captain Reyes."

"Haw, that guy? If a mule kicked him in teeth he'd kick it back, harder. And believe me, getting retired from combat duty by the head honcho was _way_ more than a kick in the teeth. Don't think he's ready to give up the reins all nice-like yet." McCree finishes his beer and gets to his feet, grabbing the paper bag of Genji-approved take home for Hanzo and tossing the empty bottle into the trash as he goes. 

Genji waves to the shop owner and pulls his hoodie more securely over his head. With hands in his jean pockets most people wouldn't give him a second glance. "Commander Morrison said he would also retire himself when he hit Captain Reyes' age." 

"Yeah, but that just means he'll be stuck giving orders from the shuttle. You don't see him actually handing over control, do ya?"

"Mmm, I suppose you are right." Genji's footsteps make no sound next to him, but Jesse's serape gently brushes up against the cyborg's hoodie, providing just enough friction that Jesse can always sense his closeness. "It is difficult to imagine anyone else leading Overwatch."

"No kiddin', guess that's how he feels too." Jesse sucks on his cigarillo and exhales. "Ana too, she's got years on both of em and is still running half the show. If this thing with the UN goes south, we might lose the lot of em. Bet they'd bring in some civilian leaders. Seems to be what the world wants anyway."

They walk in silence awhile, meandering back toward the base. 

Jesse wonders if Blackwatch could survive a UN investigation, and if Overwatch could survive without a Blackwatch. It's starting to feel like the world only wanted a toothless hound. Everyone wants security but no one likes to think about the bigger beasts that hold the coyotes at bay. It was a constant struggle to keep the violence in the shadows, across the borders, enacted through bullets instead of explosions. And it's a dirty job, but if no one takes out the trash then the whole neighborhood starts to stink.

After the omnic crisis, life had still been hell all over the world. Plenty unsavory types, like Deadlock, took the chaos of what felt like the end times to a lot of folks to carve out a niche of power for themselves. Took a long time to tamp all that down, and even with Overwatch as massive as it is now, the rest of the world is still bigger. It's not like they are running out of criminals. 

But good luck explaining any of that to a public that just wants to imagine their 'heroes' as good and pure as they'd seemed as kids.

Jesse finishes his cigarillo and pauses to rub it out on his boot, dropping the butt back into the pack. Genji waits for him. 

"So," Jesse hems, trying to figure out how to ease his way onto a topic he's been meaning to breech for a while. The cyborg straightens, head tilting to indicate he is listening. "Bout your brother bein' here. You sure you don't wanna go see him?"

Jesse is always ready for Genji to just shut up and take off at mention of his brother, though he'd been a lot better about that as of late, and this time Jesse only catches the cyborg tensing up. When Genji responds it's quiet and lonesome. "He cannot know I am alive."

"Yeah, I get that." Jesse wishes for a cigarillo to chew on and tucks his thumbs into his belt instead. "I think you're right on it, if he wants to join up it can't just be cause a you. But what about if you don't tell him who you are? He thinks you're an omnic."

Genji stares at him for a long moment, then turns his gaze ahead and continues walking. He stays close, Genji's shoulder just barely brushing against him so Jesse knows he hasn't been snubbed.

Eventually, Jesse remembers the underwear.

He flusters, more embarrassed at his failure to be unflappable than at the idea of purchasing underpants for another man. Genji inquires, but Jesse for once puts him off, makes an excuse, says it could take a while. Doesn't say what 'it' is.

The cyborg, in a rush, to Jesse's surprise and maybe to Genji's as well, steals the doggy bag from Jesse and says he'd take the prisoner his food then.

 _Aw hell_ , is Jesse's first thought. That meant he wouldn't be around for it.

He smiles anyway, encouraging. The cyborg is unreadable, and turns to head back to Watchpoint while Jesse goes to see if a clothing shop he has a vague memory of is still around.

Belatedly he wonders if Genji would've known Hanzo's size.

Nah. He wasn't going to ask that. Weird.

\------------

Noon comes and goes, with Hanzo finally turning the clock over so he will stop checking the time. Now that he is clean, fed, and arguably even _dressed_ , the largest challenge of enduring imprisonment is certainly boredom. 

He is, at least, feeling much better, and still relishes that after the long and painful and _degrading_ day that had come before. After a more thorough exercise regimen he showers again, managing with just water for his hair, and pulls the prison jumper up around his waist, tying it off with the arms and leaving himself bare from the stomach up. He washes his other clothes, underwear included, as thoroughly as he can in the tiny sink and hangs his garments from the bars. With no windows and the air cycling slowly he can only hope they will actually dry before they mildew. 

By the time he eats the cookie he finds it stale and slightly too sweet, but otherwise quite good, and wonders if there will be more.

His dress tie, clean but still damp, is serviceable for pulling his hair back, removing it from his face and one more annoyance from the list.

He makes his cot, tugging the sheets neatly even. 

He paces around his cell; adjusting his clothing to encourage it to dry faster.

He considers turning on the biotic machine to bask in its warmth again, but once it had repaired his knuckles and scalp he had decided not to waste whatever energy it has remaining. 

So finally, with nothing else to do and the cowboy still absent, he considers escape.

Hanzo is quite sure that now, sober, and less concussed he could eliminate _McCree-kun_ easily enough. But he has heard the secondary door open when the American comes and goes, and once McCree is on the other side of it, all sounds cease. Even if he could open his cell, it is incredibly unlikely the secondary door is not locked and monitored in some fashion. Blackwatch may be poorly prepared to manage as a prison, but he doubts they are similarly lacking in securing their base. Since he had been unconscious when brought here, he has no idea how many other doors lie between him and freedom, nor how many enemies.

If he is to escape he will need information and, for that, the cowboy's continued desire to…

And that is the trouble, the point where he gets stuck every time and the reason he has been avoiding dwelling on it. What does the cowboy _want?_ Other than Hanzo's affection, which is obvious enough. 

Sitting with his back straight, arms crossed on the cot he snorts. He half-suspects that is also one of the American's ploys, but if so he has been laying it on so thick Hanzo is almost embarrassed for him. No, he is quite sure McCree-kun is attracted to him, and it would not be the first time Hanzo has made use of that liability.

But while that might be what causes the American to fluster even safe on the other side of the bars, it doesn't explain why Hanzo is _here_ , or what McCree expects to gain from coercing him into Blackwatch. And without knowing what the man truly wants it is difficult to plan how to use that as leverage.

As early afternoon inches into late, Hanzo fantasizes about having a bow in his hand, a slight breeze, releasing arrow after arrow into wooden targets on his practice range. He adds a cigarette break to his daydreams and exhales evenly through his nose, then looks up at the camera he knows is monitoring him. He glowers at it deliberately, then gets to his feet to exercise again. If he can do nothing to control the coming and going of his captors he will at least not let it seem as if he is pining for a distraction.

Just as Hanzo is finishing his stretches he hears the soft whisk of the door at the end of the hall opening, the sigh of the air pressure shifting.

Hanzo greets him, tetchy. "Is your schedule perhaps too full to--" And then pauses when he realizes there was no accompanying thud and jingle of the cowboy's telltale footsteps. He holds his breath, waiting, catches a syllabant scuff, easily missed by less trained ears. Hanzo immediately stands straight, eyes trained on the edge of his cell where the omnic emerges.

It looks dramatically different in normal lighting. Or perhaps simply _less_ dramatic. What Hanzo has always thought of as a violent neon green glow now is only pale lime spots on eggshell armor. It is unarmed, like the cowboy had been, sword left somewhere far out of Hanzo's reach. Unlike the cowboy, Hanzo is less certain of his ability to beat the omnic in hand-to-hand combat, though he still finds himself tempted to try.

It's carrying a small, rumpled paper bag in its left hand. That little touch of normalcy is almost comical against the omnic's threatening frame.

The omnic stares at him for a long moment; stiff and expressionless as any robot but somehow Hanzo feels as if it is holding its breath. 

"Hello, Hanzo." It finally breaks the silence, greeting him in fluid Japanese. 

Hanzo bristles at the familiarity. "You've adopted the American's misconception that imprisonment puts us on friendly terms."

"No." The omnic's voice is deep and contains the characteristic hollow echo of all its kind, but there is something like amusement just on the edges of it. "Terms of respect are for those who are respected. You are the disgraced leader of a defeated clan."

It almost catches him off guard, after the cowboy's unrealistic attempts to befriend him, finally hearing a member of Blackwatch coming at him properly makes even predictable blows hit harder than they should have. He brushes it off, tsks. He's heard worse from men whose opinions matter to him more than the omnic's.

"Are you here to crow over your victories, then?"

"No." Quick, dismissive. But then it hesitates. There is a crunch as the omnic's grip tightens on the paper bag. When it finally continues, its has turned thoughtful. "Maybe."

Hanzo's eyes narrow, he can feel his spine stiffening up. He knows he has no reason to let the omnic get to him, but he remembers the lives it has taken. Directly and indirectly. The green-lit omnic had been ever present in the tales from his family as they were picked apart by Overwatch. 

It was strange to think of a robot has having a cruel streak, but what other explanation was there? He stalks up to the bars, well within arms reach, challenging. "Are you another of this 'Blackwatch's dregs? Some sadistic, broken machine given a direction for your blade after the end of the crisis?"

Again that stillness, the omnic has that same aggravatingly unreadable body language of all their kind. But when it speaks it sounds as if it is halfway to laughing, the rest of the way toward mockery, and that is not what Hanzo is familiar with from them at all. "You aren't entirely wrong. But, if you shoot enough arrows into the dark you are bound to hit something." It actually _chuckles_. "You don't recognize me, do you?" And when Hanzo starts, confused, the omnic's tone turns superior. "I knew you wouldn't."

That clears up nothing. "You think I would forget the omnic who assassinated members of my clan? I would recognize the work of your blade anywhere."

"Apparently not." There is slight shift in the omnic's stance, like the right screw turned loose. It crosses its arms, shifts its weight to one hip. The paper bag is now held loosely and crinkles against its synthetic muscles. "In that case, I should give you a name. You can call me Lightning."

Not for the first time in the past two days, Hanzo finds himself feeling oddly as if he is buzzing, too alive with thoughts and sensation he cannot place. The omnic does not frighten him, but it is _wrong_ in half a dozen ways, none of which come together to explain anything, all of which scream at some gut instinct he cannot identify. The omnic's chest expands silently, too human, as if taking a breath. And every time it speaks its emotion has shifted. When it gives Hanzo an English word as a name, it rolls out of the machine with a Japanese accent. He cannot recall if he has ever heard such a thing before, but he hardly kept company with omnics. 

He is sure only that it feels indescribably _incorrect_. He has the urge to force his hands to stop shaking but when he looks down, finds them steady as rocks. 

So he pretends, that he is fine, that the omnic does not set him inexplicably on edge. 

"Lightning." He has seen the creature fight and doesn't find the name ill fitting. "Very well. Why am I here?"

"Shouldn't you be able to answer that?" The omnic is responding more quickly now, there's an odd air of flippancy in its words. 

Hanzo clicks his tongue, his brows pull together. " _No_ , any expectations I have were proven incorrect when you didn't draw your blade the other night."

"You assumed I'd be interested in cutting down a drunk?"

He sneers at the omnic, crowding closer to the bars of the cell. "Even drunk I can put up more of a fight than some of the men and women you have killed." Ah yes, there was his fury. Like a dragon winding up his spine. "Do not pretend you are too noble for a slaughter _now_."

"I…" And it… hesitates. Off again. That buzzing in Hanzo stutters like the words caught in the robot's voice box. "They had it coming."

Hanzo slams a palm against the bar of his cell. His voice raises only slightly but each word snaps, sharpness making it louder in the small room. "And do I _not_?"

The silence between them is raw with polarized energy. Hanzo's breath heaves like the outburst exhausted him and the omnic stands frozen, watching him. 

After a long moment there is a quiet _snk_ , a sound faintly familiar. A shuriken rises out of the omnic's right wrist, over its knuckles, into its hand. "Is that what you want?"

Is it? Hanzo curls his hand around an iron bar and his eyes drift to the shuriken. Not unarmed after all. He wonders if the cyborg is making an offer or a threat. "I want a proper match with you." Even he can tell his words are sullen.

"We've had one. You lost."

He had been livid, miserable, disgraceful. The only way this machine ever sees him, it seems. "You didn't kill me then, either."

"No."

The omnic's voice was no longer giving anything away, and Hanzo almost misses its mockery. He tries not to sound plaintive. Fails. " _Why?_ "

It's response comes after several beats. "Why do you seek death so readily?" It tilts its gaze down, deliberately toward the scar on Hanzo's stomach. The American had noticed it and not asked, the omnic apparently does not need to.

"I _seek_..." His headache is returning, a haggard inhale breaks up his thoughts. "I seek a chance to avenge my clan."

"Is that so? Then why did you never come after me?"

"What?"

The omnic shifts its weight, and rolls the shuriken back and forth across its knuckles. Hanzo recognizes it as a casual, thoughtful gesture, like a child spinning a pen. "You must hate me. You could have found me if you had looked. Which means you never did."

"I…" Hanzo feels like the omnic is trying to distract him. Dredging up irrelevant memories. Of course he had wanted revenge on the machine that had killed his family."What does it matter? My clan has been destroyed, I could not disappear on a quest for revenge."

"But you _could_ disappear into a bottle?" Words that should have been cold and judging instead are sly, sarcastic. 

That is enough, Hanzo flickers from quiet uncertainty to bright anger in a moment. "You know _nothing_ of what I have lost," he snarls. He presses up tight to the bars, reckless, but it gives him the distance he needs. His hand darts past them and snatches at the omnic's wrist. The omnic is just as quick, and as it deflects Hanzo's hand the shuriken in its grip slices into the meat of Hanzo's wrist.

He ignores it. The omnic shifts closer, engaging him, and Hanzo considers that alone a victory. He yanks his bleeding hand back through the bars and the omnic drops the bag in its left hand to pursue. Hanzo is ready, and as its fingers just begin to crest the threshold of the jail he slams the plated hand up against an iron bar. A human's hand would be broken, the omnic simply makes an irritated tch. 

It goes for his throat next, and Hanzo feels a thrill to realize the omnic isn't backing down so easily. He slips to the side, feeling fluid and alive, burning inside on an intoxicating mix of anger and excitement. The omnic misses and Hanzo yanks hard on the hand still between the bars, throwing his weight into it. There's a dull clang as the omnic crashes against the cell, and without hesitating to consider his response, Hanzo uses the omnic's precarious position to wrench at the trapped limb. He forces the omnic's forearm where it isn't meant to go, feels the joint protest, hears the omnic curse. It doesn't scream in pain like a man would, if anything it is angry that Hanzo has won the match. Another strike at the omnic's elbow while he applies an opposite pressure at the wrist and the joint snaps. It doesn't sound like bone; it's shaper, closer to the surface. No less pleasing.

Hanzo feels himself smirk, satisfied with the exchange, it is a small moment of triumph but he's been waiting on it for years.

The omnic yanks back on its injured limb with strength a human wouldn't be able to muster after an injury like that. It escapes Hanzo's grip, which is now messy with blood. The omnic doesn't withdraw out of arm's reach but stands just millimeters on the other side of the cage wall. 

The omnic clearly doesn't feel pain, but in a way that is refreshing. No matter how human this thing sounds, so matter how personally it managed to dig into him, it was a robot. They are nothing alike. It cannot understand him, and dwelling on its questions is pointless. He steps toward the cell's edge again, close enough to the omnic that if it _actually_ tooks breathes, they would be sharing them. "If you are so interested in seeing me get my revenge, open this door, and we can settle this today."

It stares at Hanzo, unmoving, visor barely reflecting the room's low lights, then backs down. It steps back and no longer even meets his eyes, using the excuse of inspecting its mangled arm. Hanzo wonders if omnics have something like a will which can falter. 

An iridescent green-grey fluid flows sluggishly down the omnic's broken arm. It smells like ozone, sharp and crisp, and reminds Hanzo of thunderstorms. The omnic returns the shuriken to its whole arm and then delicately inspects it's injury with slow fingertips. "This is McCree's operation, I don't control your cage, Hanzo." The sound of its echoing voice is oddly sullen. "You can't escape through me."

Hanzo scowls, feeling strangely as if he has been wrongly accused. But angry protest lends too much credibility to false claims. "Why have I been brought here, then? Surely _you_ understand how absurd his idea is. As if I would ever join Overwatch." He clicks his tongue and adds, "Or its _affiliates_."

The omnic seems distracted. It presses a thumb to where metal has cut through fiber cord as if trying to stop a leak. It's words are quiet, without heat. "You should think of it as a final chance."

Hanzo scoffs with enough heat for both of them. "At what? I can think of nothing your organization could offer me." 

No answers comes immediately. The omnic turns to leave, a thin trail of its thick blood marking his path. It looks down and nudges the mysterious paper bag it had dropped earlier just out of Hanzo's reach, reminding Hanzo strangely of a child toeing the floor, too sulky to meet his gaze. 

As the omnic exits it pauses just before escaping Hanzo's range of sight, and turns only enough that Hanzo can catch a slight green gleam on it's visor. "The same thing it offered me. A second shot at a worthwhile existence."

Long minutes after the cyborg has exited, Hanzo stands where he is, bleeding at the edge of hs cell, lost in confused contemplation. 

What the hell had that meant? What could an omnic know of a wasted life? Why do both the omnic who looks down on him and the cowboy who feigns an interest in friendship ask nothing of him? Why do they instead repeat the same ploy of an offer to join them, again and again?

Every encounter leaves him feeling as if he has only tread the same ground. Now his feet have worn a packed circle around the same unanswered questions. 

He realizes he will likely be punished for injuring the cyborg. Given the cowboy's penchant for simply neglecting him, it will be more of the same. When he finally turns to wash his wound in the sink he finds the water has already been disabled.

"Shit." Hanzo mutters. Even to himself he sounds more exhausted than angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
> 
> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags have been updated! Please check them if you care about such things.

"You were attacked at _Gibraltar_?"

Dr. Angela Ziegler's voice rings crystal clear through the Watchpoint's medlab, causing Genji to stiffen up with an internal wince where he sits on a padded chair with his broken arm stretched across a stainless steel table. A machine that looks rather like a child's mobile made of sensors rotates slowly over his injury, and in Switzerland the doctor inspects the torn fibers of muscle in minute detail with the help of a holographic visor. 

Her face is bright on the screen across from him, made more so by the gold translucent shield that covers half her face, but Genji can still make out the her pale features pinched by concern and confusion. He can feel her irritation gathering, and knows she likely is only containing herself to make sure she lets her criticism fly at the right person. It would almost certainly be one of the commanding officers of Gibraltar; it feels like the doctor has a lot to say to them, lately.

This unintended consequence finally provokes a heavy coil of regret at Genji's own rash actions. He shouldn't have provoked Hanzo, he _certainly_ shouldn't have engaged him. Other than the blow to his pride, the injury causes him no pain, but he has no interest in adding fuel to any of the many fires that had been slowly building inside Overwatch. 

And Dr. Ziegler is only the first to see him this way.

He wishes silently that he could simply cut the arm off and no one would worry about it.

"It isn't… like that." Genji tries to explain, despite already knowing it is too late and any excuses he has will only make things worse.

The doctor's sharp eyes pierce him through the screen; unconvinced and suspicious. But her words are smooth and even; a practiced bedside tone. "We will talk about this after I've assessed the damage. Samantha, please help Genji remove the paneling."

Dr. Samantha Leroy is the current chief of the medical staff stationed at Gibraltar, a thin woman with her hair in neat corn rows and an accent that sometimes reminds Genji of McCree's and most of the time does not. He has seen her more in the past few days than he had otherwise in the last five years she had worked here; Genji keeps to himself, and there is little a doctor trained only in human biology can offer him.

Genji shows her how to work the latches hidden on his arm, and her narrow fingers pinch and shove until the panels of stiff, tightly woven synthetic mesh peel back. She doesn't grimace in disgust or pity, but she _does_ ooh and ahh at the ribbons of carbon nanotube muscle, running her fingers gently up the dark grey fiber. It produces a sensation Genji's brain translates into 'sort of ticklish' and he twitches away.

Genji tries to see it from her perspective; his body is not just _a_ miracle of the advances of modern medical technology, it is a symphony of them. Prosthetics are, of course, not uncommon. Many companies specialize in them and they can be made for a wide variety of purposes. Strike Second Amari has an eye that increases her vision even more powerfully than what Genji's sensors can perceive. McCree's replacement left arm has gripping power several times stronger than his remaining human hand. Once when Genji was visiting Dr. Ziegler at the Swiss headquarters he had run into Lindholm-san, a short mechanic who had simply turned his missing arm into a multi-tool that could help him build and maintain turrets in any location.

Each of these pieces needs a special design, special parts, special software to make sure that they function seemlessly with signals sent from a human brain. Each signal, if misinterpreted, becomes a breaking point. Making a body complex enough that it could not only fully replicate the movements of a human but improve upon it had been unheard of at the time of his injury. 

Even now, it is only heard of because Dr. Ziegler literally wrote the book on it.

She put him together piecemeal. For months he had been various stages of a misshapen, skeletal stretch of metal and thin cords of CNT. The carbon nanotubes transmitted signals across his half-built body, and through practice and the doctor's constant tweaking, Genji learned to wiggle something that would become a toe, lift what might one day be an arm. He slept frequently, and came to parse sleep as something a mind does, not the body, because how could a titanium framework connected by a few wies be said to _sleep_? And when the doctor woke him it would be to test some new implementation. Could he see? Could he speak? Could he bring his 'hands' together? Could he hold a pen, make a fist, stack blocks according to size and color?

It had taken thirteen months, with breaks between for Dr. Ziegler to focus on her other duties and for Genji to adapt to each piece of his life returned to him. The first three months were spent in a bed. The next three in and out of a hover chair. At six months he could stand, but his body worked like a broken toy, every step felt like trying to execute a finisher combo at the arcade back home. If he focused on each minute shift in his body he could complete the full action and take a step forward. If he fumbled, or forgot any part of the combination, his foot would land wrong, or his leg would go backwards instead of forwards. It had seemed like he spent more time in the first few weeks climbing back into his chair then he spent walking around the medbay.

Thirteen months was nothing. He knew this and had been assured as much frequently.

He spent five weeks blind, eight unable to make a single vocalization. Only two weeks deaf, though; Dr. Ziegler had needed to restore that first. When his remains had stabilized, his mind was hooked up to a device that allowed him to communicate by thinking simple responses. He'd needed to be able to hear so that they could make him an offer. 

In the year following, every time one of his few visitors would stop by they were amazed anew at Dr. Ziegler's progress. They had that same quiet awe and bright curiosity in their voices that Dr. Leroy did as she followed Dr. Ziegler's instructions, pinching off bleeding CNT and fishing out broken metal joints from inside his elbow.

There is no one else in the world like him, and as a result, no other person who can truly repair his body than the one who had created it. And as he mutely watches Dr. Leroy do her best to tidy up the hole in his arm, he mulls over how stupid it had been to engage his brother as cockily as he had. While Fawkes-san's broken nose and arm are already well on the way to being fully repaired, Genji will need to wait until Dr. Ziegler can see to him personally. Having already consumed over a year of her life fixing his, any further infringement on her time strikes him as inconsiderate. 

When Dr. Leroy has done as much as she can under Dr. Ziegler's instruction, she wraps up the wound in case his broken CNT leaks further, and gives them the room. Feeling ungainly and insecure, like a child who has played with his mother's jewelry and then broken it, Genji gets to his feet and bows deeply to the doctor's image on the wall screen. "Please accept my apologies for this inconvenience, Dr. Ziegler. I was being reckless."

Genji keeps his head down through a long moment of silence, and only lifts it when he hears her let out a soft, tittered laugh. She blinks owlishly at him from beyond the gold sheen of her holovisor, as if she isn't sure what to make of him. "Honestly, Genji. I _hope_ it is just recklessness." She clucks her tongue. "This is quite a severe injury for your usual scuffles."

By 'his usual scuffles' she likely means the numerous times the wrong word or the wrong mood had lead to punches thrown. But it is rare for anyone to end up needing to see a doctor for that, much less one of Dr. Ziegler's caliber. "It wasn't a member of Overwatch," he assures her quickly. "Just..." his weight shifts, he hesitates, unsure of what all she should know, what she would think if she knew anything. "A prisoner got lucky."

"A prisoner." The doctor's eyes narrow and Genji wonders if he shouldn't have lied and put it on McCree. Said they got into a fight, things got a little too rough. McCree would have gone along with it. "Watchpoint Gibraltar is not a sanctioned detention facility, holding anyone, even a criminal, longer than two weeks is a violation of international law. Who is it? Did Jack order--"

She is interrupted by the whisper of a door opening, and the thud and jangle of McCree's approach.

Genji looks down at his busted arm, slung into a cradle at his chest, and wishes deeply for the option to throw a smoke bomb and disappear. 

Being a ninja is never as easy as it looked in manga.

"Sorry for interruptin', doc," the steps get closer as McCree circles around to get a look at Genji. Unable to even force an awkward smile, Genji settles for a slight shrug and a small, silent wave for the cowboy. "Aw hell."

"Jesse, this is a private medical consultation." Dr. Ziegler sighs from the wall panel as she disables her hololens and sets it aside. She brushes displaced wisps of golden hair away from her forehead as she peers at the two of them. "But since you are here, you can tell me what you know of this _prisoner_..."

"'Fraid I can't." McCree responds, not unfriendly but still unhelpful. He is still looking Genji over, and he recognizes a dark set to McCree's eyes, the way his right thumb hooks into his belt just behind his gun that suggests he'd like to use it. 

Over McCree's shoulder, Genji watches the doctor tighten up for a fight, and McCree finally turns to confront her. 

"Because you don't know anything, or because _I_ can't know anything?"

"You don't got the clearance, Angela. Let it go. He gonna be alright?"

"Hah!" Doctor Ziegler slaps the tips of her fingers on her desk in Switzerland, it make a soft thap, and is the loudest expression of anger Genji's ever heard from her. 

Then, before saying a thing more she waits, holding in and letting out an even breath. When she opens her eyes to frown at McCree, her shoulders have relaxed. She stares at him for a long second then turns her attention to Genji, who seizes up with all of the tension she had just excised. "I think I have the parts necessary to replace your joints here, but I will need surgery to repair the damage to the tendons and replace the sections of the muscle. The good news is you don't need to deal with a post op heal time, but I'm afraid I can't make an opening in my schedule to visit Gibraltar until late next week. Unless Jack will give you the clearance to visit me here…"

Genji shakes his head, quickly, and lifts one hand to ease his interruption. "The Commander has me on lockdown." A fact Genji is suddenly grateful for, as he has no intention of leaving McCree alone to handle his brother.

The doctor looks disappointed, but nods. "I would like to think a simple visit between bases is hardly cause for concern, but the UN has been all over this place lately." She sounds tired, and next to him, Genji feels McCree loosen.

"So he's stuck with his arm in a sling for the next week or so?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's the best I can do." Her attention shifts to McCree again. Her lips purse, her eyes are clear and calculating. "Jesse, I know you don't like to keep up with the news…"

McCree grumbles, sour. "I don't like to read it is all, I know what's going on."

"Then you know things are very dangerous for Overwatch right now. It is not the time for _anyone_ affiliated with Overwatch to be skirting around the UN."

McCree takes her warning with his chin up, finger tapping on his gun holster. Genji feels it more like a shot, suddenly wondering just how much this ridiculous venture of fumbling for some kind of closure with his brother was a direct threat to Overwatch. McCree had made it sound simple. Bring in a criminal and lock em up for a while. Make them an offer and either they take it and join the group or they don't and they go to prison. Genji had not considered this could work until he met with Fawkes-san and Roadhog-san, two men who no one else would treat with the dignity of an opportunity but perhaps deserved it no less than Genji himself had. 

McCree never minds the rules. That is how Blackwatch works. But it doesn't mean that the rules never apply to them. What would the United Nations think if the fall of the Shimada-gumi was represented by more than a statistic of lowering crime rates? If they realized that not only did one son of a criminal empire act as an assassin for Overwatch, but that they were trying to recruit a second? 

The hubris of it all hits him in a sudden wave, triggering a sensation like stomach clenching nausea. Genji adds stillness to silence and waits for the doctor and McCree to finish their conversation.

McCree takes the warning in stride, reflecting none of Genji's uncertainty. He tips his hat to the doctor. "Sure. You know me, doc. Don't worry, nothing like this is gonna happen twice. And it'll be real good to see you again when you visit. Let's get pizza."

And with that peace offering, the tension between them dissipates. The doctor rolls her eyes. "Let's get _anything_ else."

"Tapas?"

"You mean that _bar_? There are more than three places to eat on Gibraltar, Jesse."

McCree grins at her, and gently slaps Genji on the back, making him wonder if his friend had noticed Genji's sudden spike of insecurity. "I'll let you pick then, as long as they serve meat."

"Thank you for getting to me so quickly, Dr. Ziegler." Genji murmurs, this time offering only a shallow bow.

"Please, Genji. You are one of my best patients, and you receive far fewer injuries than certain other agents present."

"Aw, c'mon." McCree mock protests.

"Don't 'come on' me. I think I will check _your_ arm while I'm there as well." McCree rumbles in his throat, and Dr. Ziegler ignores him. Her gaze slides back to Genji and she favors him with an encouraging smile, "Take care not to strain the injury and I will see you both in ten days."

Genji and McCree return her goodbye and the wall screen goes blank.

Not a moment after Dr. Ziegler has left, Genji watches McCree's left hand make the telltale motion to dig out his smokes. Genji automatically places a hand on his wrist, "No smoking in here."

"Shit. Well let's get out of here, then, because I sure as hell need a smoke before I go and tan your brother's hide." McCree stalks back out of the medbay and Genji follows him, unsure of how he feels about the growl in McCree's voice. 

His injury is an expense for Overwatch, a time sink for Dr. Ziegler, and a cause of concern for McCree. To Genji, it is little more than an inconvenience -- it won't even be interrupting any missions, thanks to his lockdown -- and the shame of his brother besting him had quickly paled in comparison to the regret of being a burden.

He can't even bring himself to be angry at Hanzo. For many other things, yes. But he feels no particular pride over the deliberate insult, as if he didn't know exactly what had driven his brother to become a drunk.

"Perhaps Dr. Ziegler is right."

"On what part?"

"Ah. All of them?"

McCree snorts, "Well don't tell her that." They walk in lock-step toward the nearest exist. McCree drags his knuckles across the door pad to let them out into Gibraltar's evening air. It's humid and overcast, much more so than it had been earlier in the day. As McCree finally lights up a cigarillo he mutters. "So what are you saying. You want him gone?"

Genji resists the urge to fidget, uncertain on how to answer that question. 

He should be angry, at the attack, at the loss, at eight years ago. 

But in truth, it was the first encounter with his brother in years without anyone nearly dying. A broken arm for something approximating an actual conversation felt like a steal.

It had even been fun, at points. Playing the part of Lightning felt like executing a classic prank. It created an unexpected safety net between them. If Hanzo was not speaking to Genji, then _he_ did not have to _be_ Genji. And Lightning, the omnic that had callously destroyed the Shimada clan and now taunted its captured leader was having a much better day than Genji, the half-man who had murdered his own family and trapped his elder brother with his own indecision. 

He never comes up with an answer for McCree, though his friend waits until the cigarillo is burnt halfway down. He hears the the big man sigh beside him, heaving like he'd dropped a great weight. Genji watches smoke, tinted faintly green from his own light, drift past them to join the clouds.

"Well. Hell." McCree rocks back until he thuds against the wall of the building, and Genji turns to face him. "You don't gotta pick or anything. Don't let what Angela said get to you. Overwatch's been in hot water for years, yeah, but no one's gonna give two shits about what we do with a low level yakuza boss."

Genji shifts closer, until he also leans against the wall, only a few millimeters of space and Genji's pride to keep him from pressing into the cowboy's soothing presence. "They may not give a shit about Hanzo, but they will at another example of Overwatch overstepping."

"Haw. Good one."

"Thank you."

"Anyway, as long as it doesn't get out, we can do whatever we want." McCree strikes sparks on his lighter, again and again. Fidgeting his way through a tension he is likely trying to keep in check for Genji's benefit. "That's not just how Blackwatch works, that's the whole damn world."

He doesn't disagree, though sometimes Genji worries at how casually McCree states it. He has worked many ops with Blackwatch, but never truly been a member. He answers to the Commander. Perhaps his hesitation at the idea of justice through lawlessness was the reason why Captain Reyes has never suggested he change divisions. 

He answers with a quiet hum, tone deliberate and easy, as if for once he might be able to sooth some of McCree's anger. "If we do send him to prison, he will talk."

"Not if we give him to the sort of place that doesn't let it's prisoners talk. _Shimada-san_ 's an international crime lord, pardner, even if the bounty's a few years old. Say the word and we can drop him in a hole where no one ever hears from him again."

Genji's shoulders hunch, thinking that sounds especially nasty. He would rather kill his brother himself than leave him to rot in obsolescence, apart from the clan, the world, his vices. But the suggestion, and how quickly McCree has it on hand makes him laugh quietly. "You would have fit in with the family."

McCree tilts his head down to look at him, bushy eyebrows raised. "You sayin' I could be yakuza?"

"Hmmm." Genji forces himself to relax. He reaches up, and plucks McCree's hat from his head. It's a casual, playful gesture. He's reminded of loitering outside arcades, smoking and teasing his friends. Boys who had long since become men who Genji would never see again. But now he can steal McCree's hat, because they are also friends. He puts it on his own head, feels a tremoring thrill. " _Maybe_. If you didn't dress so ridiculously."

"Well, guess I ain't never gonna be yakuza then." McCree fires back, flashing a grin, and Genji is briefly struck by a moment of dysphoria, wishing he could smile back, all too aware he can't.

He shoves it aside, elbowing McCree in the ribs instead. "I like you better with the hat."

"Currently, I don't got a hat."

"I like _me_ better with your hat." Genji laughs, burying the rough edges of the truth inside of a joke. He hopes McCree didn't notice and reaches for a subject change. "Want to get something to drink?"

McCree's eyebrows shoot up, and Genji wonders if he crossed some unnoticed boundary. What, though, he can't guess. He has gone drinking with McCree dozens of times before. But all McCree _says_ is, "Pardner, you read my mind."

\------------------

Genji leaves McCree to finish a second cigarillo while he goes to fetch the clothing he abandoned outside the cells. As he enters the space with the rickety desk and ricketier chair, a yellow symbol flickers, projecting onto a dark grey background on the wall.

"Are you alright, Agent?" Genji has always found it faintly amusing that Pallas' voice sounds so much less mechanical than his own.

Dr. Ziegler and McCree worrying about him had been shameful. That Blackwatch's AI is also concerned is closer to funny. "Whoops, guess you saw that! Yeah, I'm fine. Worst thing hurt is my pride."

"The substantial damage to your chassis suggests otherwise."

"It's not like I really feel it."

The AI doesn't respond to Genji's casual dismissal, and for the next several seconds Genji navigates shrugging into his hoodie with only one arm, remembering to set McCree's hat aside only after he has nearly knocked it off. He is halfway through yanking his jeans up before he begins to find the silence suspicious. "Pallas?"

"Yes, Agent?"

Genji wonders if, somehow, it is going to be the AI that is the most disappointed in him. Then again, it had seen the whole thing. Maybe Pallas is in the best position to judge. He finishes dragging his jeans up around his waist, fumbling with the zipper and button, abruptly self conscious. "Everything alright?"

There is a pause, and when the AI replies, Genji senses something like hesitation in him. "Though agents are obviously often in danger in the field, this very rarely occurs within… me."

Genji freezes, hand still holding up the waist of his jeans. " _You?_ " But the AI doesn't respond, its logo spinning silently on the wallscreen beyond the desk. "Hey, come on. You can't just leave it there."

The AI _sighs_ , so tokenly British that Genji almost snickers, and continues in a tone that is trapped between prim and morose. "This place is a part of me." And then, hurrying on, as if to not give Genji a chance to think about that statement; "I was concerned, but I did not have the capabilities to aid you."

"Oh." The sound is inappropriately small, but he can't find any other noise to fill the void. Had that same statement come from his friends, he would have wanted to sink into the floor. Coming from the AI it was just… bizarre? What would Pallas care if he lived or died? "Sorry?" He lifts his hand, awkwardly, in the direction of Pallas' logo, then instead to the camera in the room's ceiling, now unsure of how to even address the AI. His jeans sag and he reaches immediately for them. "Don't worry about it, okay? Hanzo… that, could have gone a lot worse."

"Yes."

"I should have been more careful," Genji finally gets his jeans closed properly and edges back toward the door. "And I will!"

"That is good, Agent." Whatever hesitation had been in the AI's voice is gone now, its tone almost dismissive. The cyborg beats a hasty exit, only just remembering to grab McCree's hat before he pushes out of the office and pushes the lingering feeling he had disappointed the AI after all from his mind. 

\-------------

They visit McCree's favorite bar, a small establishment with a modest choice of tapas, beers, and exactly two bottles of tequila that the owner keeps under the bar for McCree's irregular visits. One white, one gold, both of just enough quality to be drinkable, which is exactly the right amount to remind him of home... or that is how McCree puts it -- Genji's never tried the stuff. He is a bit jealous. His drinking days are long behind him, and with them the chance to get shit-faced on foreign liquor with his friend.

McCree has been visiting the bar whenever he was stationed at Gibraltar since he was a teenager, and has a solid repartee with the burly, olive skinned owner as a result. Dalia never asks McCree about work, with a consistency that makes Genji certain she is at least somewhat aware of his profession, but she also never minds his gun, and spends the first thirty minutes of the night exchanging gossip; foreign for local.

Genji stays quiet and hidden in his hoodie, McCree's hat stolen back on their way to the bar. His attention drifts from the wall screen to the other patrons. A man and a woman flirt hesitantly in the corner, each taking turns making the other giggle. A group of four women occupy one of the larger tables, discussing work and periodically interrupting Dalia and McCree to order another round of beer and tapas. The news covers the reconstruction efforts in Brazil; chasing the Vishkar out hadn't been without damages.

Though Dalia never makes more than a cursory effort to acknowledge Genji, he likes her. All he has ever needed is the credential of McCree's company and she will let him occupy a seat indefinitely, even on the busiest of nights. 

As she puts it, Genji pays his way by making sure McCree never slept outside her bar again.

Eventually the bar fills up, Dalia and McCree run out of gossip, and she moves on to other familiar faces. 

McCree eats light and drinks heavy, with a beer, a tequila, and a plate of salt and lime wedges at the ready. "So other than you getting your arm busted up, how'd it go?"

The first time Genji had gone out drinking with McCree, he'd realized how much less careful his friend was around him with a few beers in him. That for years the American, so characteristically brash, was still somehow always treating him gently. Not without cause, he supposes. Genji had abandoned tipsy and nosy McCree alone to his alcohol more than once.

Now though, he finds himself almost relieved for the opportunity to say _anything_ about the encounter with his brother. But he has already worried his friend today, so he decides to keep it light-hearted. "I told him my name was Lightning."

That sparks a bright grin from McCree. "Lightnin', huh? Reckon that suits you just fine."

"I thought so." Genji considers explaining the reference, but had never had much success with McCree and video games. "He didn't suspect at all."

"You guys have crossed paths before, ain'tcha?"

"Briefly." Genji murmurs, knowing he sounds disappointed but unsure of how to rid his voice of the truth. "We didn't exchange many words." Genji had never known what to say, so he let his blade handle the communication. Then, too, he had felt that somehow, his brother would recognize him. Hadn't they sparred countless times before?

Dalia passes through to refill McCree's glass and deposit a pair of korokke -- or whatever the Spanish word for them was -- and McCree tests them with his finger tips. Still hot from the frier. "Yanno, back in my Deadlock days there was this guy," McCree keeps his voice low in the bar, but his words are easy and conversational, "he wasn't my boss or nothin', but he looked out for me."

"Who brought you in? The families work this way as well."

"Yeah, 'cept Deadlock was picking em up pretty young. So I woulda come up about yea high," McCree holds one of his big hands about even with Genji's shoulder. Even in the old Overwatch photos, when McCree had been a recent recruit, the American was huge. It's hard to imagine him as ever having been smaller than Genji. "Anyway. He coulda sold a bird a bridge in the desert. Can't even say I liked the guy, but he was big in my life for a while.

"He handed me my first gun, you know? Dinky little semi-auto. Showed me how to fire it, then bet I'd blow my own balls off inside a month." Genji rarely ever interrupts McCree's stories, not even for questions, but he sits up straighter at the mention of the gun, and McCree grins at him over the rim of his beer glass. "Didn't pick up revolvers until later." Genji tilts his head and McCree shakes his in return, "Nah, don't distract me or I'll never get through this yarn. Remind me about that one later." Genji relents, and McCree downs the rest of his tequila and sucks on a salted lime wedge before continuing.

" _Anyway_. We called him Piper. He wasn't like a lot of the rest of the gang, recruiting kids was pretty much his only job. Deadlock was growing big at the time, arming and/or extorting a lot of nearby towns. It was real bad business, but coming out of the crisis, everyone had already seen worse.

"So Piper recruits me and a bunch've others. Half of em disappear in the first month, back to the streets, scared off by what felt like the real big leagues at the time. Me though, I get really into shooting. Got a knack for it. Never had a knack for _shit_ before, and I figure... if these fellas'll keep me in bullets, I'll stick with them, why not? I didn't have nothing better to be doing.

"Now, first Piper's mad a kid's outshooting him. Not that he wasn't a kid too, but at that age five years was as good as fifty. Anyway, he didn't like it until he figured out how to use it. Soon he's talking me up to the boss, getting me on jobs, acting like I'm his long lost lil bro so we can both make out smelling like daisies. And I bought into it cause…" McCree gets distracted a moment. At first by his own thoughts, but he covers it up by biting off half a korokke. He shoots Dalia a compliment about how damn fine they are before finishing it. When he continues the story he picks up as if there hadn't been a break. "Well, cause it was better a sonnovagun with a few years on me than bein' left alone with the real killers, you know? I didn't know what in the seven hells I was doing and looking back on it, doubt Piper did neither, but it felt like if we stuck together maybe we could fool the rest of em into believing we did."

"So that goes on for a few years. The big cheese starts sending me on a lot more runs, Piper gets a lift on my coattails whenever he can latch on, then one day it all goes to hell. Overwatch busts in, but I get lucky. Knocked out when some dumbshit on our side -- Deadlock's side, I mean -- uses a grenade that takes out a wall. Dunno know when exactly it happened, but later Reyes tells me he took my pal Piper out." McCree says it with the same slow, easy drawl he's used the entire story. Like he was reading the morning news. There's a certain weariness, but the reports aren't about him, it's disaster far away and he's just relaying the facts. Then McCree shifts his gaze to Genji, holds up two fingers, and blasts his imaginary gun in the middle of Genji's visor. "Bang." He opens his hand, weapon evaporating, and turns back to grab his beer. "I never went after the details but you know how Reyes likes to roll. Imagine he took the poor SOB's head clean off with those behemoths of his."

McCree exhales a long sigh. "I pour one out for him, every once in awhile. He wasn't a good guy, but none of us were."

At some point in the story Genji had slipped out a shuriken and started cutting shapes into a napkin. Now he only fidgets, destroying the intricate little designs. McCree isn't often a melancholy drunk, and though he is always interested to hear about his friend's life, it coming out like this somehow felt intrusive. McCree didn't owe him anything, certainly not opening up about the brothers he has lost. "I'm sorry." He says into a silence where McCree eats his second korokke. 

And then nearly chokes on it; snorting, inhaling badly around the food, coughing. Soon McCree is reaching for a glass of water and Genji sympathetically pats him on the back. 

"Oh _hell no_ pardner. Jesus. Look, Piper got what he had coming. That son of a bitch was pulling orphans off the street to get them stuck in gang life before they knew up from down much less right from wrong."

The American seems earnest in his condemnation, but Genji remembers his father, and suspects it still can't be that simple. He doesn't protest, though, and McCree shakes his head and continues. "Where the hell was I going with all that, anyway? This is why I can't let you get a word in during story time. Distract me for a tick and I lose the plot."

So forbidden from protest, Genji slips the shuriken back into his wrist and turns his palm up in askance.

"Right. Where I was going with that _was_. I knew Piper was dead. Never thought Reyes would lie about that. But for _years_ I'd see him around sometimes. Mostly whenever we'd go back to the Southwest, but hell, I even thought I'd spotted him here once." McCree nods toward a table in the corner, then turns around in his seat, looking out the open door and into the night. "Didn't matter that I knew he was dead, didn't matter that I didn't _care_ he was dead, still kept expecting him to pop up. Now you see what you know ain't there enough times you get used to writing it off real damn quick. If I'm being honest, it still happens now and then. Not just with him no more either, lost some better folks than that piece of shit. But I almost don't even notice it anymore. They're gone, the rest of it's all in my head."

Genji is quiet for long moments, at first surprised McCree had a point to his story after all, and then doubly so at the amount of empathy it showed for Hanzo. "You think even if he does recognize me, he will convince himself it is all in his head?"

McCree shuffles through his inventory; Genji absently catches his lighter before it hits the ground while the American fishes out his cigarillos. "I'm sure that's what I'd be doing. You said they buried you and everything, didn'tcha?"

"Yes." Genji had wondered about that for years, why the family had deliberately covered up the absence of his body. For a while he had wondered if somehow Hanzo was behind it. Eventually he'd learned the lie was instead for Hanzo's benefit. Closure. "He has no reason to suspect I'm alive." 

"Then he's probably never gonna. Most of us put the dead behind us; it's the only real place for em."

Somehow, Genji has never put much thought into it: the idea that Hanzo truly believes he is dead, and has been living with that belief for nearly a decade. Genji has been so long stuck in a life he isn't always sure he even wants, often arguing with himself over whether or not to confront his brother, he hasn't considered that to Hanzo, confrontation would never again be an option. That his frustrating, irresponsible younger brother is dead, and everything between them will always be in the past.

He recalls McCree, shooting the rest of his tequila before telling him about his old friend.

Genji feels himself tightening up in increments, like a wind up car getting ready to make a getaway. The old urge to abandon McCree to finish the night alone so that Genji could disappear into a steady rhythm of sword practice, repeating the same motions again and again until his mind blanks. McCree would understand. 

But just as he turns to get to his feet, a heavy hand lands on his back, smacking him solidly between his shoulders. McCree also stands, still fairly steady. He has an unlit cigarillo between his lips and a fresh beer in his other hand, courtesy of Dalia's attentiveness. "Anyway, I want a smoke. Let's head outside a spell."

Genji latches onto the distraction in lieu of escape. Forces himself to relax. "I thought you were quitting?" He follows his friend outside. The evening is still warm, but a breeze has picked up and it shakes the trees gently. McCree holds his hat until they find a wall to lean on that is out of the wind and the street lights.

"You can't take me drinking then tell me I can't smoke." McCree mutters, patting himself down. "Hell, did I drop my lighter again?"

"Yes," Genji flips it open and holds it out for him. He expects McCree to take it back, but when he leans forward instead, Genji strikes the flame. McCree guards it against the brisk night with his free hand and sucks the tongue of fire into the end of the cigarillo. Genji watches the red light soften McCree's features before flicking the lighter closed. He settles back against the wall. "I used to do this at home."

"Which part?"

"All of it." Genji snorts, "And then some. Later nights, more alcohol." He goes to elbow McCree in the side, remembers that arm is useless, and reaches around to poke him in the waist instead. "I could have drank you under the table."

"You calling me a cheap date?"

_Are you calling this a date?_ Genji almost responds, catches the words right before they leave him, and tosses them aside before he can examine the impulse and break the flow of conversation. "A cheap date?" He asks instead, drawing the language barrier up like a shield.

"Means, er…" McCree hesitates, rubs the scruff of his chin and looks upward. "Means you can get em into bed easy by buying em a couple of a drinks."

" _Aaah_ ," Genji murmurs, as if enlightened, and readily turns the conversation in his favor. He teases, "So, are you?"

McCree squints down at him, as if searching Genji's unexpressive face, then grins. "Usually I'm the one buyin."

"Me too," he responds, wistful, recalling ordering round after round for his friends, spending his father's money lavishly at the slightest excuse. 

McCree laughs, Genji joins him, and when the mood settles around them, they slip into companionable silence. Genji with his memories, McCree perhaps also with his.

\-------------

The night burns slowly on. McCree moves from tipsy to drunk, and Genji cuts him off with a wave at Dalia. Beer is replaced with water. Genji plays solitaire while McCree mingles with some regulars. He can hear the American, laughing loud and careless with near strangers, and shoves down a wave of envy. There was a time when he would have done the same; found a way to work himself into the spotlight and then preened at the attention. Now the idea is plainly absurd. The body Dr. Ziegler had crafted him was one of the strongest in the world, but he feels small, awkward, ungainly. Hunched quietly at a bar in ill fitting clothing to hide an even more ill fitting existence. 

He wonders if his brother laughs with strangers in izakaya now, if alcohol smoothed his rough edges until Hanzo could readily present the side of himself that was genuinely pleasant to be around. 

Eventually McCree's jingling, uneven step scrapes closer. Genji feels the larger man loom over him before he makes contact, settling in a warm drape across Genji's shoulders. Genji reaches back, fingertips skating up McCree's jaw until he finds the American's ear, which he tugs on gently. He has lost track of how many times today McCree's presence has eased some disquiet in him. Genji should find it humiliating, but that is also an insecurity that can't seem to find purchase inside him at the moment. 

"C'mon pardner, let's hit the road."

"I think you need to hit the _hay_." Genji responds, slipping away from the bar and staying close enough to serve as a prop if McCree loses his balance.

"Hay's at the end of the road." McCree yawns, stretches, and makes his way out, only gently smacking the doorframe with his shoulder as he exits.

The journey back to Watchpoint is slow, with Genji effectively walking for two. More because a drunk McCree always sticks close than because he can't organize his feet. The American gets touchy more than he gets rowdy, and tugs and teases at the old scarf at the back of Genji's head incessantly.

Genji doesn't mind. 

No… Genji unabashedly enjoys it. He has spent years where the only contact he's had was initiated by those trying to take his life. The Commander never gets closer than a handshake, and Dr. Ziegler's touch is both rare and professional. 

The walk home, riddled with McCree marveling at Genji's sleek edges and glowing lights, is often his favorite part of an evening drinking with the American.

Genji drops McCree off in the Overwatch barracks. They aren't even half filled, but they rarely are. He doesn't help him undress other than making sure his friend's gun and hat are hung up. McCree is asleep the second his back hits the mattress, and snoring like a thundercloud before Genji leaves the room. 

Genji heads into the nearby kitchen, more generous than the small one allocated to the Blackwatch halls, for a glass of water. At one of the mess tables he finds a broad shouldered man grumbling over a deconstructed scatter that Genji realizes is -- _was_ \-- the coffee machine.

"Strike Commander to repair man? The UN _is_ pissed." Genji teases easily, pausing by the table to inspect the Commander's work. It's not a surprise to catch him up this late. He and Morrison-san often crossed paths in the early hours.

"Ha, hah, smartass. I got sick of the weird rattle this thing always makes."

Jack Morrison is dressed down to jeans and a worn t-shirt so boldly emblazoned with the American flag that Genji is fairly sure it has to be a joke. He barely looks up at Genji, focused instead on matching small holes to smaller screws, cursing when his blunt fingers fumble the delicate work.

Genji checks the time. "You were making coffee at oh-one hundred?"

"Twenty-two hundred."

He pauses, to get the delivery right, then: "You've been at this for three hours?"

That question, posed as innocently as Genji could manage, stills the old man until he finally looks up. "No, it can't have been…" His gaze scans toward the wall clock, bright blue eyes narrowing in suspicion when they land on the number 0125. "Shit." Morrison-san turns toward Genji, "Don't say it."

Genji doesn't say it.

The opportunity is lost quickly, anyway, as the Strike Commander registers that one arm of Genji's hoodie rests empty. His demeanor shifts subtly, no longer accepting humor at the expense of his pride, instead demanding answers at the expense of Genji's. "What happened there?"

"Ah…" Genji lifts his working hand, searching for an answer that would be both truthful and also let him escape with as few follow up questions as possible. "I was stupid?" Maybe if he accepted the blame was on him, his Commander would do the same.

" _Real_ answers, Agent."

Genji winces internally, shoulders folding as his focus is drawn down toward the miniature coffee maker graveyard. "I goaded a prisoner into attacking me, then lost the resulting confrontation." Put that way, clean and direct as anything that would go into a report, he's reminded again of how embarrassing it really is. It's surprising Hanzo hadn't mocked him more ruthlessly.

"Overwatch isn't keeping any prisoners at this base right now." The Commander makes it a statement, not a question, but there's a warning in his voice for Genji if he dares to challenge that reality.

"Well…"

He doesn't need to hear any more. "God _dammit_ ," Morrison growls, shoving to his feet. Several screws roll off the table, then ricochet across the floor. "Is this Reyes?"

"Not… exactly, sir." Genji looks up, knowing better than to not meet the Commander's eyes when they were talking business. The Commander winds his hand, gesturing for Genji to keep talking, so he does. He may as well get it all out, at this point beating around the bush would just irritate the man further. "McCree helped me capture my brother, Hanzo Shimada. Captain Reyes approved the operation, but it wasn't his idea. It was mine."

The last part is a lie, but Genji would invite Hanzo to break his other arm before he hanging his friend out to dry more than absolutely necessary.

It isn't what Morrison had been expecting, that much is obvious. His responses are often subtle, but usually honest as well. And this time Genji has caught him by surprise. The anger dissipates quickly, though the straight-backed stance stays. After a long moment of staring at Genji, Jack Morrison says simply, "My office," in a gruff voice and leaves the kitchen.

Genji obediently follows a few steps behind.

Strike Commander Jack Morrison's office is decorated, not by fancy furniture -- though the desk isn't half bad and the chair is specialized, ergonomic, and a pointed gift from Dr. Ziegler -- but with memories. Medals, awards, and commendations are framed, plaqued, or encased appropriately. Some of them are specifically for Jack Morrison, most are for Overwatch. Given half a chance Morrison-san would gladly relay the memories behind each one to anyone who would listen. 

There a couch that serves as a bed for the Commander more often than it's a seat for guests, and the corners and tables are littered with a fair number of entirely fake plants.

Morrison-san leans against his desk, arms crossed and shoulders at just enough of a slouch to let Genji know he is slipping back towards remembering he is off the clock. "You decided to bring in your brother." It's not a question, but demands answers none-the-less.

Genji flutters into the center of the room. He can't sit if Jack stands. He wants to fidget but would never toy around with weapons in front of the Commander. He feels silly in his hoodie, jeans, and uncertain hopes of seeing his brother again. His commander has caught him digging into the past like a kid playing dress up.

With no idea of what else to say, Genji murmurs a "yes. Sir."

Silences from the Commander are almost always long. He doesn't speak unless he means it, and he's not in a hurry for anyone. But when he _does_ respond, a fraction of the edge has left his voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Genji starts. Not knowing the answer to or origins of that question. "I…" Never thought about it? Even for a second? "It seemed like a Blackwatch matter."

The Commander snorts, calling bullshit without needing to say the words. "You work for me. And taking down the Shimada was always more Overwatch than not."

"In the past, yes." Genji speaks slowly, discovering his own response one word at a time. "But I don't know exactly how this will go. It's probably better if it stays off the records."

"Off the records, huh?" The Commander's brow lifts, and Genji can't tell if his look is one of appraisal or just disbelief. "What'd you bring him in for, Genji?"

Genji imagines Hanzo, eight years younger, hair still awful, face immobile as he attends his little brother's funeral. Accepting the reality that neither of them had ever expected to come to pass. One dragon had consumed the other. 

"Closure." Genji's voice is still and neutral. It's much harder for his throat to lock up with emotion than it used to be, one of the little features of this body he is grateful for. "But I don't know what that means. He may be in prison in China in a week, or…" Genji let's that and all of its implications hang. "McCree is allocating some resources to help me figure it out."

Across from him, Morrison-san lets out a sigh like a blast, propelled on irritated acceptance. Genji shifts his gaze back in time to catch Jack jabbing a finger toward him. "Resources like what it costs to fix you up?"

"Ah, sorry," Genji interjects quickly, lifting his hand in askance. "I really was stupid. I know how to make him mad so I did. You can take it out of my pay."

" _No_." Jack comes back just as quick, rubbing a hand back through his thinning, pale hair. "No, that's not what I meant." Uncertain, Genji can only cock his head while the Commander frowns at him. "Anyone caught wind of him missing yet?"

"I'm sure the Shimada-gumi have noticed, and likely guessed who has him. But they lack the influence to force his return, and they can hardly go to the authorities."

"Anyone else?"

Genji shakes his head. "Few people cared enough to intervene when Overwatch targeted them years ago, I'm certain no one outside the clan cares now."

"Alright." Jack grumbles and relents, and Genji feels a knot in himself unwind. Like releasing a held breath, except, of course, he can't do that. "Keep it out of the news. The last thing I need is the media gossiping about insidious family reunions."

Again, Genji wishes he could smile. Some easy way to show his amusement without having to force a laugh that would be too much. "I'll cancel the interviews."

Morrison harrumphs and leans back against his desk further, relaxing. Another silence a few beats too long stretches between them. "So, how'd it go?"

"Um?"

"With your brother." The Commander prompts, destroying Genji's hopes he was somehow asking about something else.

The question forces him to assess the encounter differently. He sets the complex tangle of emotions he hasn't even had time to thoroughly examine to the side, but he also can't just tell the Commander what he had told McCree. Morrison had seen too many of his insecurities for a lifetime now. "...it went better this time than when we last spoke."

Jack Morrison blinks, then surprises Genji with a laugh. Just a low, wry chuckle that makes him sound younger despite the layer of memory hidden somewhere in it. He nods. "Fine. Alright. Dismissed. Tell your asshole brother if he breaks anything else of yours I'm throwing him off this rock wearing a cement onesie." 

Genji also laughs, the sound far more uncertain coming from him. _I would, but he might take you up on it,_ he thinks of sharing, then does not. Instead he bows to his commander deeply before leaving the office.

On his way out of the base he remembers McCree's water, fetches it from the kitchen, and leaves it on the nightstand near his bunk. The cowboy hasn't moved an inch or quieted a notch. 

It's early morning, and he hasn't slept in two days. But he also isn't tired yet. He should go on to his practice, refresh himself in the night air with a sword in his hands. But that doesn't help him think; it helps him do the opposite. And he is realizing that if he is going to deal with Hanzo's presence without further burdening the people around him, he will need to actually dwell on the matter of his brother.

So instead Genji settles on the ground next to McCree's bunk and crosses his legs. He doesn't meditate, just tries to dig up one unpleasant memory at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small edits to the tags this time.

The morning after his night out with Genji, Jesse drags himself out of the barracks around 0830. Late; Reyes would have his hide but Reyes doesn't write his schedule anymore, and anyway, with everyone keeping a low profile while the world called for their head, he doesn't have much to get out of bed early for.

He might've slept in even further except that memories of the previous day eventually pierce through the haze of sleep. Telling Genji about Piper; drawing up a memory that left a lead soup in his stomach, heavy but malleable, not a big inconvenience. Had it paid off? Maybe. Hard to tell with Genji, opening up to him on stuff like that was a kind of investment. He'd return it with interest. Probably. One day.

Jesse rolls over and yawns into his arms, memories coming back to him in reverse. Smoking alone in the night, trying to remember if Genji'd ever expressed any interest in _anyone_ boy or girl, beyond occasionally sharing stories of old conquents. Genji stealing his hat, asking him out for the evening with the kinda grin in his voice that if it was anyone else, Jesse'd figure they fancied him. Walking into the medbay, head like a thundercloud, to find his partner with a busted arm and Angela ready to crawl up his ass about the legal details of locking up murderers. Pallas stopping him on the way to the cells to tell him the brothers had fought and Genji'd come up the worst for it. Spending far too long debating over underwear before determining that Hanzo _had_ to be the boxer-briefs type and getting two different sizes because hell if he was going to be guy that forces another man to live in ill-fitting drawers. 

Each memory flickers up and passes by with no real emotional punch, just a twinge of embarrassment here or anger there. Any feelings he might of had he drank off the night before and, anyway, he's got a headache. 

Still, recounting the day before gets his head into gear enough that returning to sleep isn't an option. When he hauls himself out of the bed it takes him a minute to realize Genji's dumped him in the Overwatch barracks. The cyborg's out like a light on the bunk above his. He resists an urge to tug on the tattered scarf hanging off the mattress; Genji probably needs all the sleep he could get. Instead Jesse strips and walks across the hall to the bathrooms with a towel under one arm and a sleepy waver in his step.

He continues drowsily through his morning routine, washing, shaving, dressing, angling for the main mess before heading back to Blackwatch halls. The hanger is busy with staff, but the only actual agent he runs into is Winston; overseeing a project on some new stealthy satellite. Jesse tells him it sounds mighty useful, and begs off on account of a growling stomach when the young scientist starts to get technical. 

For some reason, the coffee machine in the mess has been completely dissected and left for dead in the middle of a table. There's no one to ask about that, so Jesse makes a couple of peanut butter and banana sandwiches from Winston's stash and moseys back to the Blackwatch kitchen to actually get his coffee.

Roadhog and Junkrat are there, as they often are around this hour, and while Jesse turns down a full meal, he is pleased to steal a couple of slices of bacon. He leans his hip on the table and munches on them while he waits on the coffee. "How's the arm patchin up?"

"I'm dying, mate." Jamie Fawkes, who preferred going by Junkrat, unless you were going to call him something fancy like _Fawkes-san_ , lounges across half the table. His prosthetic arm, with the help of his long torso, stretches almost to the other side. His _other_ arm, recently broken, is locked in a thick hard-light cast and tucked up against his side. "I can't build any bombs like this. I haven't blown anything up in _days_."

"That's real rough, compadre." Jesse leans to the side, squinting at the cast, which has been covered in cute drawings of tiny pigs. "Did that thing get bigger? Thought they only put that kind on kids."

"He broke it. Again," Roadhog rumbles while mixing eggs up in a small bowl with a fork, both items seeming to disappear into his meaty hands.

"I didn't _break_ it," Junkrat protests, voice turning puritanical. "It _was broke_. Again."

"Vending machine."

"It ate my money!"

Jesse rubs the smooth side of his jaw, just short of where his beard starts, "Er, you boys know the vending machines on base are free, right?" Roadhog's mask turns directly toward him, and Junkrat sits up, squinting at Jesse with an animal's confusion. He elaborates; "Yanno. _Free_. Like the fridge here. The machine's just… er…. I dunno. Easier to restock? But don't give em a red cent."

"Oh." Junkrat pauses, sharp gaze shifting away from Jesse, to Roadhog, to the table. He drums his prosthetic fingers, then declares. "Guess I didn't _need_ to blow it open, then."

" _Blow_ it open?" Jesse groans, fingers raking up his beard into his hair. It was too early for this, he hadn't even had his morning joe. "I thought you hadn't exploded nothing in _days_."

"It was just an itty bitty bomb. Doesn't count." 

Junkrat sounds petulant, and Jesse knows from experience that sometimes dealing with him wasn't much better than wrangling a kid. He turns to look at Roadhog instead, but the massive man only shrugs and stirs his eggs. 

Jesse sighs. "Good thing it don't count for much, because it's coming out of your check."

"What? No!" Junkrat holds out his metal hand plaintively, like Jesse was physically taking money out of his wallet. "You can't keep making me pay for everything I explode!"

"Sorry, pardner." Jesse reaches out to ruffle the younger man's wild burst of singed hair. A gesture which Junkrat still habitually shies away from and Jesse has decided to just keep at until he gets used to it. "That's the way of the world when you're one of the good guys. Gotta take some responsibility."

"M'gonna end up in the poor house at this rate." The Australian sulks and slumps back in the chair. 

"Probably not, seein' as we don't charge you rent." The coffee machine beeps that it is ready and Jesse peels away, pulling out a thermos and filling it up. He wonders if a Japanese guy like Hanzo likes it black, tempered, or outright sweet, then he reminds himself that asshole has broken Genji _and_ Junkrat's arms and so he doesn't get coffee the way he likes it. Jesse wants it black. 

The thermos is shoved under his arm, and Jesse hooks two mugs on one finger before balancing the stack of sandwiches on the same hand. The last strip of bacon goes in his mouth, because assholes don't none of that either, and he remembers to mumble an impolite thanks to Roadhog for the cookies the other day. Roadhog holds up loosely curled hand, large as Jesse's head, and Jesse returns the gentle fist bump on his way out.

\---------------------

"So, comparde, I'm thinking you and me need--"

Jesse pauses between one step in the next, setting his boot down with some care when he realizes Hanzo isn't waiting for him, isn't even awake. 

He would bet money that Hanzo is at least as light a sleeper as Genji, that whole trained to be an assassin since birth thing means he finds it hard to believe anyone ever catches them with their guard down. But now Hanzo sits tucked into the corner of his cell, breath shallow, head down, looking a mite paler than last Jesse saw him.

"Well, I'll be." Jesse scratches up under the brim of his hat, scans the area, and notes the doggy bag from yesterday on the floor outside of Hanzo's reach. Guess the brothers had thrown down before he got fed then. So that put Hanzo at around a day and some without food. The man doesn't look like he has an ounce of fat to spare but Jesse figures he could handle at least that much okay anyhow. 

Jesse sets the coffee, cups, and sandwiches on the floor and bangs on the bars with his prosthetic fist. A dull ring fills the narrow hallway. "Rise an shine, Shimada-san."

The loud noise does it, Hanzo starts awake like a kicked dog, disoriented and ready to bite. He's unsteadily on his feet faster than Jesse can blink, one hand on the wall and the other wavering in front of him as if to guard or launch into an attack, hard to say. Jesse winces, able to sympathize even if he is hardly moved to pity. "Easy there, fella."

Hanzo's face pinches at the words, like they offend him, and hell they probably do. He shakes his head, falls back until his shoulders hit the wall, and Jesse realizes that is more than disorientation from being dragged raw out of a deep sleep. "You alright, hoss? You ain't looking too hot."

"What do you want?" Hanzo's voice rasps like the air is moving over sandpaper. He's coming together slower than Jesse'd expect, rubbing at his eyes, staying in contact with the wall like he needs the support.

"To have a proper sit down bout your options here." Jesse answers easily, but his eyes scan Hanzo in much more detail. Hanzo doesn't look hurt, despite the smudged brown stain on the floor suggesting Genji hadn't taken _all_ the damage. But he has the biotic field so all but the deepest cuts woulda patched up by now. Stain doesn't look big enough for there to have been all that much blood. He catches a faint tremor in Hanzo's fingers, notes sunken eyes, and thinks Hanzo's skin is missing some of its attractive bronze sheen. His breaths are a tick too fast and too shallow. Jesse's no doctor, but unless the cut had been a bad one, seemed a bit much for some blood less. 

Boy, he hopes Hanzo doesn't need a doc. Jesse doesn't want to explain _that_ to anyone. He squints at Hanzo through the bars. "You coming down with something?"

Hanzo snorts, his arms cross over his chest and he stays leaning back against the wall. With the jumpsuit tied around his waist, scars and tattoos bared proudly, and looking like the world had wrung him out lately, he really fits the bill of a prison inmate. Jesse's struck with the odd sensation that every time he visits the elder Shimada he's meeting a slightly different person. "Hah. If you were hoping to break me you should have stayed away longer."

"Well, I'm pretty sure I told you I ain't, so I didn't." Was Hanzo this sour about a day without food? He supposes it is technically illegal to not feed prisoners three meals a day. But then again, so was being an assassin, arms smuggler, and drug lord. 

"Ah yes, you are the 'good cop'." Hanzo pauses to swallow between breaths, drag his tongue across lips that Jesse finally notices are cracking. "Does that mean you had the forethought to return my water rights before trying to again convince me how we could be allies?"

Ah hell. How the fuck had the water got turned off? Jesse covers his confusion easily, tapping a finger on his belt, pulling on a dumb face. "Shoot, you're right. Plum forgot about that." Genji doesn't have authority in Blackwatch to make that call, meaning unless Reyes or someone else had been poking around (always a possibility) there was only one best option. 

The Japanese man shoots him an icicle glare that Jesse bets make them hop back home, but doesn't have a lot of effect on him, 'specially not when Hanzo looks like a steady wind would knock him over. "Did you just show up to mock me?" Then, in a quieter voice, as if speaking more to himself. "I continue to never understand what you want out of me. There must be better forms of entertainment for you."

"Well you are some kinda spectacle." This earns him another look of sharp reproach, which Jesse fends off with a cheery grin. "But alright, let me get that water situation sorted out then we can chat. You're looking right parched." 

Jesse slips away from the bars and Hanzo's suspicious gaze, heading back past the soundproof door. Once he's on the other side he smacks his fist onto the nearest wall. "Pallas!"

The AI responds promptly, "Yes, Agent McCree?"

"Did you turn off the water on the prisoner?"

"I did."

Jesse scowls. Granted, Pallas was his own machine and had the power to make calls like that. If Reyes didn't trust his judgement he'd be disabled in a heartbeat, and the AI hadn't steered them wrong in the last fifteen years. "What the hell for? I know you heard what I told him."

"You indicated you did not want to resort to tactics of denying him food and water." Pallas' voice is prim, with an air of defensiveness. Jesse again wonders how much of what the AI does and feels is programming. 

"Yeah, so why'd you make a liar out me?"

"You were a liar long before I was created." Jesse opens his mouth, 'can it, smart ass' on the tip of his tongue, but it rushes on, cutting him off. "I was... angry."

"You…" Jesse pauses with his fingers mid drum beat on his belt. "Hang on a hot minute, this is _revenge_?"

"I believe _punishment_ is more accurate." 

"Ho-lee shit." Jesse leans back against the wall, annoyance filtering out of him in favor of confusion, and a faintly embarrassed awe. He spoke to the AI, on and off, every day. Pallas had a distinct way about him but always kept it business-like. "Can't recall you ever pulling a stunt like this."

Pallas is silent a moment, and Jesse wonders if the AI was going to stay that way. Sometimes he refused to respond without a direct question and more and more Jesse wonders if that wasn't just Pallas being a little shit. But after a lengthy pause the AI responds. "There was never a need, in any other case you would have done the same without my interference."

Jesse rubs his knuckles along his beard, mulling that over. It is true, last night he had been fixing to go break a few bones yesterday, but Genji'd distracted him. Worrying about the cyborg had eventually overridden storming after his brother, and once Jesse's temper died down he could recognize it wouldn't get him anywhere anyway. Hanzo Shimada isn't a guy who'd regret his actions just because you cleaned his clock. 

But Pallas is right, anyone else had pulled what Hanzo did, it wouldn't matter much if the Overwatch agent had provoked it or not. Especially not down in Blackwatch. They looked after their own first. All Jesse manages to come up with is "This ain't the usual circumstances."

This time, the AI is silent, and when Jesse realizes Pallas has nothing to add, he sighs. "Alright, not like you haven't earned it. But turn his water back on. We gotta get friendly with this one."

"Do we really?"

"Gonna hurt Genji way more than a busted arm if he's gotta give up on his only family."

Pallas sighs, not a recording of Reyes this time. Jesse thinks it sounds more like Jack. "Acknowledged. Water access enabled."

"Thanks, Pal." Jesse tips his hat at nothing in particular and slides open the door behind him, heading back into the cells.

The first thing he notices is that the food he left outside the cell has disappeared. All of it, including both cups. 

The second is that Hanzo has sat down on his cot. The sandwiches sit on the unfolded paper towel, one with a single bite out of it, and Hanzo sips black coffee primly from a mug. "See you decided you ain't worried about poison."

Hanzo narrows his eyes at Jesse across the rim of the cup. He's already looking better, either coffee or indignation kicking some life into him. But he says nothing, so Jesse keeps on. "What, not talking to me no more?" Jesse waits a beat, Hanzo turns his eyes toward his cup in dismissal. "One of those sandwiches was for me, you know. Haven't had breakfast yet."

"And I have not had lunch, dinner, breakfast, or anything to drink." When Hanzo's voice has lost most of its earlier rasp. "I have good news; you will be fine."

"Ain't you always just a peach." Jesse looks down, nudges the toe of his boot against a dark colorless stain that has set into the stone floor. It cracks and scatters at his touch. Genji's blood; no different from an omnic's. "Dunno what you thought would happen after you hurt my partner."

From inside his cell, Hanzo snorts. "Applying expectations to you has proven pointless."

Jesse lifts his head, scrutinizes Hanzo through the bars. That sounded a lot like an admission of ignorance, something he would've bet the man wasn't capable of. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Hanzo sips at his coffee, in all the ways he previously looked the part of an addled convict, he now makes 'refined Japanese gentleman' look effortless, even when sitting in a small cell with chest exposed and twin dragons curling down his muscular arms. "You have yet to explain why I am here."

Jesse leans against the bars, thumbs in his belt. "Pretty sure I told you that on our first meeting."

"Even assuming you have been completely honest in your simplistic and ill conceived plan to recruit me, you have already heard my answer. Should I not be on my way to the prison of your choosing by now?" Hanzo sounds almost disinterested in the conversation, voice barely rising above a murmur.

Hanzo's got a point, without being able to mention Genji the motivation for locking him up but keeping him around was mighty suspicious. He shrugs. "Haven't decided to accept your answer. Offer's still open til I take it off the table."

"Ridiculous." Hanzo mutters in his corner, but the word has little heat. He lifts his head. "What are you so desperate for?"

"Dunno that I'd call it--"

"You've violated international law."

"And I'm pretty sure you don't--"

" _Silence_." Hanzo barks, voice cracking toward anger like a kettle reaching boil. Jesse stills with a frown, and the yakuza continues in clipped words. "Attempted coercion, torture, and manipulation. You have tried to bribe me with my own freedom. Now I have harmed your _partner_ and you still wish to play as if we could be friends."

Hanzo takes an even breath before continuing. His dark eyes boring into Jesse. "Do not think I find it difficult to anticipate you because you are _clever_ , McCree-kun. Your actions and words are so nonsensically disjointed that it leaves your threats and offerings equally meaningless.

"You are _desperate_ , that is obvious. But for what I don't know. You are in over your head but I can't guess _why_. What I do know is that if you want even the slightest co-operation from me, you will start explaining. And if you can't do that, you can leave."

Jesse's mouth twists out in a long line as if he'd swallowed something spoiled. Part of him wants to scrap on principle. It's too late to pin the water debacle on Pallas -- whatever little credibility he'd managed to build with the man was as good as dirt now -- but he also doesn't much feel like he owes Hanzo the honesty in the face of all that unapologetic arrogance. "Buddy, you get more fulla yourself every time we jaw. You really think you can kick me out of my own jail now?"

Hanzo ignores him. Not a flicker of a glance in his direction. Not a twitch. He dunks a small bit of the peanut butter and banana sandwich into his coffee and eats it. Jesse thinks it's the daintiest damn thing he's ever seen.

The silence persists for five, ten minutes. Jesse watches Hanzo put away an entire sandwich with small bites and wrap the second up in the napkin, saving it for later. It's a strangely soothing spectacle. His temper drains off, wicked away by the minute movements of Hanzo's hands shifting between cups, food, cloth.

If Hanzo's mad at him, and Jesse finds it hard to believe he isn't _murderous_ , he does a stellar job of hiding it. For a guy who'd been barely able to stand a half hour ago, he is fluid and precise. Jesse finds his gaze again drawn to the two azure dragons, spinning through a canopy of clouds laid out across tan skin.

Jesse closes his eyes and runs down a string of expletives in his head. That Genji's brother is one of the most attractive men he's ever seen isn't even on the table for debate, but the fact that Jesse finds it so consistently distracting is still juvenile and getting more embarrassing by the day. Didn't help none that he is pretty sure Hanzo'd picked up on it. 

"The water's back on, by the by," he mutters into the silence of the cells. Hanzo finally makes a tiny mistake; his dark eyes flicker in unintended acknowledgement, even if they stop short of landing on Jesse. Hanzo unfolds to his feet, somehow looking elegant even when for a beat he needs to brace on the rock wall before heading to the sink. When he's assured the water is indeed running, he fills one of the mugs and drinks deeply. The column of his neck stretches, undulates with a slow wave as muscles flex to allow water down his throat. After a moment Jesse averts his eyes to avoid the swelling sense of voyeurism. 

Once Hanzo's downed two cups and Jesse has gotten real damn familiar with the half-cleaned bloodstain inside the cell, he catches the dragons rising in the corner of his eye and looks back to see to see the broad expanse of the yakuza boss's back, arms lifted to pull the tie from his hair. Jesse watches the dark strands fan down upon his shoulders and realizes in a moment of absolute clarity that Hanzo is screwing with him on purpose. 

He says nothing, he _breathes_ nothing. He has the strangest impulse to cover his eyes and watch only through his fingers like a kid at his first R-rated flick.

Hanzo's hands move down toward his waist, untying the arms of his jumpsuit and lowering it past the perfect sculpted rise of his ass. 

"Howdy _fuck_ ," the jumble blurts out of him, rushing past and taking all of Jesse's dignity with it while he keeps a white-knuckled grip on his common sense. His prosthetic arm smacks hard against the iron bars in his sudden urgency to back away and a bright ring echos in the cells. Jesse grabs his hat and holds it in front of his face to stop himself from watching anymore, struggling to chase away tantalizing impressions of a mysterious green tattoo rising high on Hanzo's right thigh with the image of Reyes kicking his ass from one end of Gibraltar to the other. 

There is a long moment of silence, and then he hears the squeaky twist and harsh spray of the shower turning on. 

Jesse's heart and stomach clench into identical iron balls while all their warmth divides equally between the northern and southern ends of his traitorous body. 

"Information!" He spits the admission out like a curse. "We need you for an informant on the Kokan." There's a beat, then the shower shuts off, and Jesse lowers his hat enough that he can glare over the brim. Hanzo is finally looking at him over his shoulder; smug as the cat that caught the canary. Jesse's not sure a gun between his eyes has ever made him feel as much like a man had his number as that damn smirk. "God, you're as slick as owl shit." He huffs out a heavy breath, then grumbles. "Put your damn clothes on and we'll talk."

He sees Hanzo dip out of his view and come up a moment later, and when he lowers his hat in hesitant jerks he finds Hanzo dressed again. From the waist down, at least, which Jesse guesses is as much as he's gonna get unless he finds him clothes that appeal to the yakuza's vanity. 

The impulse is low.

Hanzo pulls his hair back, retying it as his gaze scans McCree heel to head, dark eyes calculating. "Is it too warm in here for you, Cowboy-kun? You're looking rather flushed."

Times like this Jesse is glad life has handed him so many heaping spoonfuls of humiliation that he can swallow it down without much trouble. "Don't worry about it, sweet-pea, I can handle the heat."

With a slight shrug Hanzo finishes tying off his hair, then crosses his arms and stands at an easy rest. "So, I am to believe you've captured me for information on the Kokan-kai. Why didn't you say so to begin with?"

Jesse grumbles, replacing his hat on his head, mentally sorting the lies and the truths into neat piles so he won't mix them up later. "The offer was legit. Still is. Was just hoping you'd take the chance to join up _then_ we go after Kokan, instead of me having to twist your arm. But if you're serious about wanting out of here, help us with this and I'll at least fire you off to a country that'll treat you alright."

All half truths, the Kokan-kai's a medium-fry that has been on the to-do list since Shimada fell and they picked up a good fifty percent of the dying clan's business. But the to-do list is as long as McCree's arm and the with the heat on Overwatch lately, Blackwatch has been sticking to targets either small or shrinking. Kokan is neither, so they might've easily gone ignored another few years if they didn't make a convenient excuse for why Hanzo would make a useful informant. 

He isn't sure Hanzo's _buying_ it, exactly, but he's a least considering, which might be good enough. The yakuza tilts his head, a slight cock with a little chin-jab that abruptly reminds him of Genji doing the same. "You continue to think the threat of imprisonment has any sway over me."

"Hoss, the fact that it doesn't means you ain't seen the inside of enough jails."

Hanzo's brows draw down at 'hoss', but he doesn't ask. "Only this one."

That's not a surprise, he has Hanzo's record. No one official has ever locked him up and he'd be surprised if anyone had unofficially before now. "Well then let me tell you, they aren't all as ritzy as this place. If the dirtiest day of your life was a little bit of blood and sweat with no shower for a few hours, you _really_ aren't gonna like it when you're shitting and pissing in a pot shared between you and twenty other prisoners."

If this idea bothers Hanzo even a hair, he doesn't show it. Instead he clucks his tongue, like Jesse was wasting his time. "You will have better luck with bribes than threats."

Well hell, it was something. And Jesse likes those better himself. He shrugs. "So you're too proud for one and not the other, huh? Alright, I got a bottle of that stuff you like back around here."

Hanzo's eyebrows lift, for the first time interested. "'That stuff I like.'" God bless drunks. You always had an easy in.

"In the gold bottle. Soozack.."

"Suzaku." Hanzo smiles, pleased and sly. "Finally a reasonable idea, McCree-kun. No one enjoys negotiation with a dry throat. You can bring it."

"Hrm." Jesse pauses, turns that over in his head. He's meant to offer the bottle as a low-balled bribe and hell, Hanzo probably knew that. But it isn't like he's never smoothed the way for friendly conversation with alcohol before. He switches tack. "Ain't it a little early, even for you?"

"My schedule is unusually open." Hanzo murmurs dryly, but Jesse catches a quiet sigh on his breath and then Hanzo nods. "Come back later, then. And bring me specifics on what you are looking for on the Kokan-kai."

Apparently Hanzo was actually willing to play ball. Jesse grins, tipping his hat and backing away from the bars. "You got a deal, I'll come back on by la--"

"At five thirty."

Jesse pauses mid-step, "Five-thirty, huh?"

"Precisely." Hanzo turns away from him, returning to the cot where he picks up the clock Jesse had left him. 1012. "It's impolite to come and go whenever suits you. If you want to speak to me you can keep appropriate time." The clock beeps quietly as Hanzo sets an alarm for 1715. "And bring food as well, of course. Something with a fresh vegetable this time."

Jesse thumbs at his belt buckle. Trying to wrangle up some kind of indignation because that'd make a mite more sense than feeling so damned charmed. They were finally getting somewhere, and if Hanzo wanted to make it look like he was holding the reins even from the other side of the bars well, that was just fine. Jesse grins. "Sure thing. I'll bring that other stuff you wanted by too."

This catches the yakuza by surprise, his sleek eyes catching Jesse's, narrowing in suspicion. "Hm. See that you do."

Jesse sees himself out. Pallas asks in cool tone if he should start sending Jesse recordings of the prisoner showering. Or maybe, since he doesn't like to look at screens, the AI should just give him the play-by-play? Blood simmers behind Jesse's cheeks and he tells Pallas to shove it and pull up everything they had on the Kokan.

\-----------

Jesse spends the next few hours digging through every intriguing search result Pallas finds on the Kokan-kai, precious little of it is actually gathered by Overwatch or Blackwatch operatives. Mostly it's news and police reports out of Japan. The last encounter with Blackwatch had been over six months ago, Kokan got a little too big for their britches and crossed paths with Talon. Unfortunately for them they were the weaker link, and Blackwatch had moved in to disperse their operation and keep Talon from establishing a trafficking route into South Korea though Kokan's familial connections. Connections now broken thanks to certain parties no longer drawing breath. Since then the Kokan hadn't stuck their necks out too far.

After he has enough to at least get them through his next meeting with Hanzo, Jesse leaves Pallas to assemble the report and takes the opportunity to squeeze in his daily routine. Jogging, lifting, climbing, shooting. He used to do it all first thing in the morning, but with the freedom that comes from having some authority, now it usually gets shoved in sometime around midday. Once he's showered off and while he's cleaning his gun he rings up his favorite cyborg. 

Genji picks up the comm promptly, his voice is cheery with an ease behind it that Jesse finds almost startling. It kicks his mood up a notch almost without him even noticing. He mentions he'll be talking to Hanzo later about the terms of his co-operation, and the cyborg sounds not only agreeable to the idea, but invites himself along.

Jesse gives him the time, ends the call, and pulls his hat down over his face.

He takes a couple of long, slow breaths. "Hell."

Hopefully Hanzo would reel it in a little with 'the omnic' around. But he can hardly avoid seeing them both in the same spot. Reyes' voice comes through clear in the back of his head. "This isn't some low-life anything-goes operational, cowboy. You're a honest-to-god _professional_ now, so you better fucking act like it. And if you can't? Then you better at least save me the effort of throwing your useless ass into the ocean by taking the dive yourself."

\--------------

After the cowboy leaves, Hanzo drinks more water, exercises until he is dizzy, showers, rests, and mulls over the events of the morning. That the cowboy's attraction to him is a viable card in play was undeniable at this point. Useable, but frustrating that it is the only real certainty he has. Kokan? Really? Even now they are not half as strong as the Shimada had been years ago, and surely Overwatch has more pressing villains to focus on. If they have somehow gotten into something deep enough to catch Overwatch's eye, Hanzo has no knowledge of it and thus makes a poor choice as an informant.

There is no doubt in his mind that weakening the Kokan-kai is, at best, only a convenient bonus of his capture. But at this point the cowboy's reticence to be honest with him is obvious, any other information will need to be gleaned by less straight-forward means.

In the day before, without water or food or anything to distract himself, he had instead focused his energy on coming to terms with his situation. The most likely outcome is that he would end up in a maximum security prison somewhere in the world; the cruelty of this outcome would vary by country but in all cases he would be cut off from his family permanently, and beyond that little else mattered to him. He would likely try to kill himself when that time came, and finally find out if his dragons are still so invested in his life as to save it a second time when they have not bothered him with a whisper in years.

But as long as he is here, in this peculiar trap at the hands of Overwatch, he might as well investigate his options thoroughly. The cowboy, with his poor planning and fraying self control, might eventually make an error that allows him to escape. Or, failing that, he might finally challenge the omnic, _Lightning_ , and either avenge his fallen family members or put a more palatable end to his own miserable existence. Hanzo has difficulty seeing one of these options as particularly preferable to the other, and he is reminded of the omnic asking him why he had never sought revenge.

And he had not. Not against Lightning, not against Overwatch. When younger and angrier members of the family suggested it, he forbade it; fearful of losing more.

He has long given up on wondering what his father would have done. His father would not have killed Genji.

At five twenty-eight the door tucked out of sight from this cell whisks open. He makes out the cowboy's obnoxious boots instantly, and almost misses the faint paff of the omnic following along behind him. They both parade into view; the cowboy carrying a large platter covered by two tea clothes in one hand and a bag of supplies in the other while the omnic holds a familiar bronze bottle of Suzaku.

At least there would be sake. 

"Both of you," Hanzo murmurs, not hiding his displeasure, though the cowboy deflects it with a bright grin. 

The omnic's broken arm is wrapped in a sling, and when the machine catches Hanzo inspecting it, Lightning lifts his other hand in something approximating a polite greeting. "Yo, Hanzo. Don't worry about the injury. It will be repaired soon enough."

 _Yo_. Hanzo frowns, offended again by the familiarity but knowing there is no point in complaining about it. "If you would like to spar again at that time, I'm sure I would enjoy the exercise."

"That's a good idea," that note of humor is in the omnic's voice again. Hanzo wonders what in its life is so entertaining. "It wouldn't do for your muscles to atrophy in here."

To the side the cowboy coughs and fidgets with the brim of his hat. "Alright boys. Plentya time for that later. For now though, I don't fancy trying to have a meal with someone through bars. So I'm gonna open up. You pull some funny business, get lucky and kill us both, then my AI pal locks you in here for the rest of your real short and miserable life, capiche?"

Hanzo rolls his eyes and nods. The cell he is contained to is the least of his challenges in escape. In truth, he is at least pleased they will not spend the next hours passing food and drink between bars. 

The cell door is opened remotely by McCree's 'AI pal', and the cowboy saunters in, setting the platter down on top of the bloodstain on the stone. Hanzo smells warm spice, onions, faint hints of citrus, and when the cloths are pulled aside he's greeted with several small plates of grilled vegetables, thin strips of spice rubbed steak, pale disks of flatbread. A trio of small bowls contain green herbs, lime wedges, crumbled cheese. _Fajitas_ , the cowboy informs him.

They settle down on either side of the food while the omnic leans in the cell door, ankles crossed, looking like a teenage loiterer. The cowboy pours them both sake and Hanzo sips it from the mug, feeling something like relief settling over him as cool liquid slides across his tongue. It eases wounds that biotic emitters can't reach. 

Hanzo prompts the cowboy to explain the food, which he can tell pleases his 'host'. McCree explains his regional cuisine of Tex-Mex while showing him the proper way to build a small meal by piling the preferred proportions of ingredients into a tortilla. Hanzo goes light on the meat, which is spicy, and favors the mix of vegetables that have hardly seen any heat -- only to find those are also spicy. The onnic comments on his nose beginning to run almost before Hanzo notices himself, and he glares at it until it lifts a hand in surrender. 

By the time Hanzo has moved onto his second serving of sake, the cowboy has brought out a portable wall screen projector. It displays maps showing Kokan's spread across Japan and into South Korea, the Philippines, Malaysia, and curling up toward India. China is also in their market, Overwatch suspects, but it hasn't been confirmed. Lines in various colors show which channels drugs are moving through and which are weapons. 

Hanzo says nothing, and McCree says little. It provides a decent canvas of the intel Overwatch has without going deep. Hanzo can see where he could provide information on specific contacts, locations, methods. With Blackwatch's abilities, and the omnic in particular, it would not be difficult to isolate and target individual lines, cutting the supply of money and reputation off from the clan. It had taken Overwatch three years to bring the Shimada to their knees, with Hanzo's knowledge he surmises it would take six months to do worse to the Kokan-kai.

By his third serving of sake the food has been picked over. McCree mops up meat drippings with a wedge of tortilla, and Hanzo watches him for signs of drunkenness. The conversation turns toward what Blackwatch can offer him.

"Eight hours outside this cell, daily." The cowboy guffaws and Hanzo ignores him, continuing to speak even as he sees an amused grin rising over the mug in the American's hand. "Japanese clothing, decent quality. A variety of teas, I will pick them, and all of the necessities to enjoy them. A device I can make reading purchases on and use to keep up with global news. A bow, arrows, and a place to shoot them. The ability to send daily correspondence to the Shimada-gumi."

Somewhere down the list the cowboy's expressions shifts from amusement to incredulity to outright disbelief. He's still formulating a response when the omnic cuts in on the heels of Hanzo's final demand. "No. No contact. That part of your life is over, Hanzo."

Interesting. It strikes him as a strange statement from the omnic, deciding what is and is not to be part of his life going forward. He narrows his eyes at Lightning; adds an easy twist of mockery to his voice. " _Hah_. Is that what you think you've achieved?" Hanzo downs the rest of his sake and sets the mug aside, leaning forward on one knee with a smirk. "If that is your goal you should have killed me four years ago."

Hanzo feels the air thicken between one breath and the next, the omnic straightens, the cowboy reaches for his gun holster, forgetting it is empty. As McCree's thick fingers curl around empty air he murmurs a soothing, "Now fellas…"

A beat passes while Hanzo waits to see if the omnic will take him up on the offer. To see if a shuriken rises out of the machine's wrists. Lightning fast; he'd need to be ready to dodge. 

But instead the omnic returns to its lazy lean. It does not break Hanzo's gaze but its shoulders sag, and the tension in the air recedes like an exhaled breath. "I did not kill you." The omnic's voice starts at murmur and gains strength word by word. "And you _have_ been cut off from them still. No contact with the Shimada."

"Feh," Hanzo flips his fingers at the omnic, disappointed at the lack of confrontation. He catches the cowboy refilling his sake and lifts the cup. "Then you cannot afford my information. But I thank you for the sake."

"Nah, now. We know that ain't true, though you do drive a pretty hard bargain, Shimada-san." The cowboy enters back into the conversation with his slow drawl. Somehow the absurdity of it distracts the irritation radiating out of Hanzo. "And I reckon you know we weren't gonna agree to that one. Not right off the bat, anyhow. How about this, we start out with three hours out a day, supervised of course, no contact, and no weapons. The rest I can getcha. We see how that goes a few weeks and if it's working out we can talk about those other stipulations."

Hanzo clucks his tongue and looks into his sake, watching it sluice around inside the mug. Its usual sunset coral looks a dingy grey inside coffee stained cup. "Six hours. And the bow is non-negotiable."

"Comprade," McCree-kun has the gall to sound patronizing, "you'll have to forgive me if I ain't up to trusting you with nothing sharp and pointy just yet."

His gaze cuts back up toward the cowboy. "Then get me a practice bow. Or lock me alone in a practice range. I am not letting my abilities go to rust because you do not know how to keep what you have caged."

McCree's eyes widen by fractions, caught by Hanzo again. A whisper, a hushed curse escapes him but Hanzo doesn't catch it. The omnic interjects, speaking over his companion: "I will watch him. He knows he cannot hit me."

The goal is to prickle his pride, obviously. But after the last several days, where boredom afflicted him more than any other discomfort, the promise of contending with the omnic is appealing. He smiles and lifts his cup to it. Kanpai. "In that case, I shall not even need a practice dummy."

The omnic mimics tipping a cowboy hat, a gesture so unexpected and uncanny on the machine that it startles a laugh out of Hanzo. It rolls out of him, loud but brief, and he finishes another serving of sake to bury his grin.

Hanzo is still fighting to control the expression, best not to let his humor get so far away from him it became _embarrassing_ , when something lands softly in his lap. He looks down to find a pack of cigarettes resting on his thigh. "We're running out of the good stuff, hoss, how about you slow down a bit?" 

Hanzo eyes the bottle of Suzaku and sees they are down the last fourth, and with his need to drink indulged the idea of a smoke is preferable anyway. He peels the plastic away and slides a cigarette out, placing it between his lips. "Can I be trusted with a lighter, at least?" The cowboy tosses him one and Hanzo snatches it from the air, pleased at familiar weight in his hand. He flicks it a few times before a flame catches, and when he sucks in the first smoky lungful he feels more complete than he has in days. 

"Thank you," Hanzo exhales, watching the smoke curl up toward the stone ceiling. Across from him the cowboy lights a dirty little cigar. It smells dark and overwhelms the more delicate scent of his cigarettes, but it's good enough to be drinking and smoking in company again that he doesn't feel the need to complain.

"De nada. I'll get started on wrangling up the rest of what you wanted tomorrow. And you can start your four hours of freetime bright and early then." Hanzo's lips pull down in a frown and he pulls his cigarette away to argue but the cowboy continues. " _Four_. You manage a whole damn week without trying to skip out or murder anyone and we'll see about adding an hour a week. Til then you can drink all the tea and read all the books you want in here, so long as you give me something useful to work with on Kokan."

Hanzo says nothing, considering the deal while he finishes his cigarette in silence. The cowboy gives him the time, plucking uneaten scraps of peppers with his fingers. The omnic's gaze has wandered onto the cowboy as well; the foot not holding its weight taps to a slow beat. 

He wonders how these two became a pair. The cowboy had also mentioned an 'AI friend', which he assumes to be whatever intelligence manages the facilities. Was McCree-kun just partial to machines? There were such men in the world. 

"Very well." He says at length, grinding the butt of his cigarette out onto the platter when he realizes there is no other option. "I will also need an ashtray."

The cowboy grins at him, that bright wide split that always appears like a surprise on his hairy face. "Sure thing, Shimada-san." He leans forward, shuffling his large, disorganized frame; ridiculous boots jangling. He holds out a massive paw. "It's a deal."

Ah yes, Americans. Hanzo waits just long enough to make the man feel uncomfortable, then reaches out and accepts the offer. He uses a light grip, skin barely touching, and shakes. "We have an agreement."

\-------------

Genji contains himself until he hears the pressurized whisper of the door behind them sealing shut, then he flings himself at McCree's broad back, scaling the massive American in a small hop and embracing him around the neck with his one working arm. The cowboy hat is knocked aside, tumbling past them both, and Genji presses forward until McCree's half-kempt brown hair obscures his vision.

McCree is startled, rears back, nearly falls until Genji plants a foot on the door behind them and shoves his friend's center of gravity back into alignment. Dirty dishes balancing on the tray in McCree's hand rattle; one falls and shatters across the floor. 

For a moment they freeze like that. This is new territory. The cowboy is the touchy one; always reaching, always making space. Now the ninja has stolen that space instead; the ambush almost as much a surprise to him as the cowboy.

Then a chuckle spills out of McCree. One of his big hands quests behind them, finding the old and damaged scarf to tug at it. "Take it you're pleased with how that shook out? Wasn't sure what to make of it, myself. What with you fellas threatening to punch each other's ticket every two minutes."

Genji notices a faint tremor in himself. The vibration obvious up against McCree's unyielding steadiness. If only he had the ability to take calming breaths, to hyperventilate, to cry. If he had _any way_ to release the steam on emotions that have reached a boil. Instead all he can do is cling to his friend in an old expression from a lifetime ago. The only answer that came to him.

So Genji says nothing, only holds tighter; not letting up even as his legs hang limp, toes nosing against the jeans of McCree's calves. And finally a thick hand wraps around Genji's forearm, begging for an millimeter of space as McCree wheezes, "Pardner, I need ya to talk to me 'fore you choke me."

"Ano…" How did words work, again? Who told you the correct ones? Genji had been stricken silent through the last fifteen minutes of negotiation. He plants the balls of his feet against the back of McCree's legs for leverage to lift himself up, easing off his friend's windpipe while he searches for the right vocabulary -- in English, no less. 

"I… made him laugh again."

McCree stills a beat, then somehow warms even further. "Aw, honey." He's pouring on that yawning drawl again. Tricking Genji's nerves into compliance. McCree tips them back until Genji finds himself pinned between the cowboy's heavy frame and the unmoving door. Broad shoulders sit back against Genji's chest and he feels the tremble begin to suffocate under McCree's weight. "Yeah you did, pardner. You sure as hell did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	7. interlude; on summer days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In no particular order, three summer days of our protagonists' pasts.

It's not soft sunlight that filters in through the dirty window, but harsh rays that have the strength of microwave lasers, baking his body while his brain struggles to keep him buried in sleep. If he is asleep he can't be hot. The summer can't hurt him anymore.

Genji groans and rolls over, kicking off sheets in defeat. He can already feel himself beginning to sweat and realizes he must have slept til almost noon. Well, not bad considering he has a vague memory of being up at dawn.

His eyes flit across the room's features in disinterest. Poster of Lady Raida, scattered candy wrappers and cigarette butts, a thin desk with a used tea set. Whose room is this again? The sheets are a deep purple. Genji sifts through names of the girls who he had run into last night. Some of them old and familiar, some new. Who had won the prize, slash accepted the burden of giving him a bed for the night? Rin-san? Reiko? Asagawa-chan? 

A smell of minty lotion on his fingers works its way to his nose, triggering a memory of digging through her purse and finding a thick tub instead of a narrow tube. Wrong gel for the right place. She'd laughed like an evil spirit, cackles more than giggles, and sat down on him anyway. 

She cackles when she's drunk; it's super cute.

Genji flops a boneless arm across the bed. He finds a thin shoulder, warm back, round ass. He pinches. "Mai~ ko~"

The body next to him, also burdened by overwarmth from the sun's punishing reach, stirs and grumbles. She's slower to wake than he is -- most people are -- and while he languishes in the heat she rolls, flops, and scrapes dark and matted hair away from her face. 

"Oh, wow." Genji murmurs, lifting his chin into his hand to get a better look. Her makeup has migrated; green lipstick a pale smear on her cheek, dark mascara and eyeliner set into heavy shadows under her eyes. "Now you _look_ like an evil spirit."

Her eyes widen as a hand rushes to her cheek, fingertips brushing over stiff eyelashes. She hisses. "Shit! I forgot to wash it off again!" Genji struggles to hold back a laugh and fails. She has a hand on his ear in an instant, twisting it between her fingers until he lets out a defeated whine. "I'll kill you, ninja boy."

"Go for it," Genji falls limply back on the bed. "It's too hot too live."

Maiko lets out a long, miserable moan before also dropping face first back into the bed. A moment later her legs flail until the sheets have been completely banned to the floor. 

Neither of them move for a while and Genji feels drowsiness returning when Maiko turns her face toward him. "Why the hell are you still here? Don't you have a thing? A yakuza thing?"

_Oh. Right._ "Shit," Genji sighs, then forces himself up as he accepts he can't return to sleep. "My brother'll handle it."

"How irresponsible." Maiko yawns, groans again. She presses a palm against the side of her temple. "Careful Gen-chan. You're only so popular 'cause you're rich. Get kicked out and then who's gonna wanna hang out with you?"

"I'm not _just_ rich." Genji pulls himself to his knees and leans over her, needling at her soft points with two fingers; cheek, neck, breasts, stomach pudge. "I'm also hot, and funny, and a great lay." She makes a face and curls onto her side to guard herself, smacks at his hands until he stops. He matches her, grin for glare. "You'd still have me, right?"

She scowls at him with tired eyes for a long moment, then blows sour breath directly into his face. He gags. "Maikoooo…"

"Are you seriously not even a little hung over?"

He snickers, salutes her with two fingers up in front of his face, winks. "I'm a professional, baby."

"I hate you." She rolls onto her back, spread eagle, and shoves at him weakly until he slides off of the bed. His clothes are scattered among hers and he begins to sort them out, sniffing each piece to gauge if he can get away with wearing them at the meeting.

"You need me to bring you anything? Food? Ice cream?"

He sees her stained lips quirk even as she flings a forearm across her eyes. "I'm not eating icecream for breakfast, dumbass."

"It's," Genji finally checks the time, 11:40. _Shit._ "Almost lunch!"

"Mmmm. Just get me anything. No, wait.." She holds up a finger. "Anything _plus_ a cold coffee. ...Actually." Another finger. " _Two_ cold coffees. Skip the food."

"I'm bringing you two cold coffees and ice cream." He leans over her and gives her a peck on the lips, provoking a tired smile. "Can I use your bath?"

"I guess."

"You're the best, Maiko!" He calls over his shoulder, already halfway across the small apartment with his clothes bundled under one arm.

Maiko's bathroom is so tiny he wonders how anyone _not_ a ninja manages to contort themselves enough to make use of it, then remembers with a smirk that Maiko actually _isn't bad_ at contortion for an amateur. He cleans up in under five minutes, dresses with his skin still damp, and pops out Maiko's window for a swift exit that drops him directly in front of the konbini below her apartment. Two ice cold cans of coffee and one small carton of mint ice cream later he re-scales the wall; startled gasps follow him up from the street below. 

"Catch!" Genji's shout is the only warning he gives her, dropping all three freezing items directly onto her sweltering flesh. She curls up instantly, shrieks and curses him. Genji laughs and makes his escape, landing nimbly on the sidewalk and setting an easy pace toward Hanamura.

He finds his phone in his pocket and flips through a number of texts from his brother. They start at passive aggressive level three, jump abruptly to an eight, and then start to clear Earth's gravitational pull. There's also two texts from his father; one expresses concern, the next mild disappointment.

As he skims through them, Genji feels his light mood deflate. The meeting had been at ten, not eleven, apparently. So it was now over halfway done, and he was still at least fifteen minutes away from Hanamura even if he set off at a dead run. 

Instead he slows, flicking the screen up and down while he considers his options. Showing up for the last half hour is cheeky, and a good maneuver when he wants to guarantee Hanzo won't speak to him for three days, but even his pride prickles when it really is just because he's fucked up.

Not that he ever feels motivated to be punctual even when he does remember the correct time. The sort of meetings he is expected to be at, as a future leader of the Shimada-gumi, are a bunch of old men gossiping about their children in between planning shipments of weapons or political bribes. When he was younger he had been excited about the idea of getting involved in the business; the romanticization of working for the family was stronger nowhere else than in the yakuza itself. But in reality it had turned out to be often boring, at times unsavory, and an arena in which he could never score a single point.

Hanzo was born to be the leader, and just in case he hadn't been, he also puts in enough work for any two sons. 

More and more often, Genji is happier to just leave him the throne. 

Genji fires Hanzo off a quick text; "Sorry, bro! _:(´□`」∠):_", and returns his phone to mute. He stretches under the warm sun, already feeling cheered up. If Hanzo is going to take care of it anyway, there was no point in Genji sacrificing the chance to enjoy his own day.

He turns around and heads back toward Maiko's. She's really the best. Top five, easy. Maybe if gives her some time to get over her headache she'd head out with him again tonight. And if not he could find someone else. Adachi worked nights so he might be free. And Kuroda-kun would go anywhere if Genji was buying. 

It doesn't really matter which of his friends he can get to show up. They're all better than dealing with the family.

He takes his phone out again, shooting Maiko a text to ask if she'd like some shaved ice.

\------------

"Eey, Deadeye. Heard you got like five last night." Couch is massive, with two inches on Jesse and three times his width. When he stops in front of Jesse he blots out the New Mexican afternoon sun, and squints up at him with a grin. 

Jesse tips his hat back to look up at him, snickering at the exaggeration. "Whoever told you that can't count for shit."

Couch's face splits into a grin, his teeth as pale as his tattoos light up his dark skin just as well. "Fuckin' figures. Never asking Three-Toes for the word again."

Couch holds out a beer that Jesse accepts; it's refreshingly chill as soon as it hits his hand. "If he counted on his toes instead of his fingers he'd get it right."

"Three, huh?" Couch pops the can on his beer while he thinks about it, then looks over at the work being done on Jesse's left arm with an easy nod. "Not bad, kid." The older gangbanger sounds impressed, and Jesse is grateful the outdoor heat would excuse any flush in his cheeks. Instead he fires off a finger gun, weakened somewhat by the beer in his right hand. "You still gettin em right between the eyes?"

"This time one actually went _through_ an eye…" Jesse confesses. And Couch laughs.

"Really living up to that name. Keep it up, lil' Deadeye." Couch thumps him on the shoulder and Jesse feels his whole body shake. Next to him Dolly mutters in Spanish and squeezes an old claw around his bicep, holding him in place. "You're gonna have that whole arm exed out in no time."

Jesse tips his hat and Couch peels away, distracted by a scuffle breaking out and off to make bets on the winner. A tight breath escapes him, one he hadn't noticed himself holding, and Jesse presses the cold can of beer against his cheek. This summer has been unusually hot, he's starting to think the sun will take him out before a bullet does. 

"No drinkin' why I'm inkin'." Dolly chides in accented English without looking up at him, though Jesse waggles the unopened beer at her anyway.

"I got it, ma. Not gonna make you witness any crimes here."

Dolly snorts, unimpressed with his humor which ain't a surprise given how he's never once seen her crack a smile. She is pushing fifty and looks like she's past ninety. The sun or the Crisis has darkened and shrunk her like a prune, and she has more metal in her ears than Jesse's got at his hip. Her own tapestry of tattoos is so faded and wrinkled as to be nearly unrecognizable, but the work she does on others is some of the best you'll find in the Southwest, so of course Deadlock has her out for several days at least once a month. 

Jesse's left arm lies stretched out, palm up, on an a table made of stacked crates and plywood, and Dolly wraps her right hand around his upper arm while her left carefully pricks him with the needle again and again, growing the forest of crosses on his arm. 

Next to his knuckles is a little plastic baggy; its contents looking like soft, pink melted wax under the glaring sun. Jesse shifts on his stool, rolls the warming beer down to his neck, and looks away. "Ain't you gonna like, put that away? On ice or something?"

"Nah," her smoker's voice crackles, he half expects dust to puff out of her lungs on every breath. "What's the matter, can't stomach it?"

" _Hah_ , Doll you got any idea what I do around here?" He tries to sound derisive, mocking. Why does this old woman always get to give him shit when all she has to do was put ink in thugs? 

Dolly doesn't glance up at him, doesn't glare, isn't perturbed by a teenager with lip. Jesse expects her to at least dig into him with the needle but that doesn't come either. "You told me, boy. Sands thought they'd renege on a deal when the only enforcement was a kid with a gun. You're killing people, same all all these thugs, just getting an early start." She finishes the third cross, runs a clean wet cloth across the fresh tattoo, gathering up little droplets of blood. "Real go-getter."

When Piper says it. When the boss says it. When Couch says it he feels a weak flutter of hope. That somehow he's faking his way through to _something_. That once he's pulled the trigger enough times, piled up enough bodies, he'll _get it_. He'll snap into his proper place among the Deadlock, stop feeling like every day he's walking on eggshells, waiting for someone to ask why the fuck some good-for-nothing kid is being trusted with jack shit.

When Dolly says it he knows she's not fooled, and he'll never be whatever it is he's playing at.

Jesse looks off into the burning sunset while she lights up a cigarette. While she takes her first long inhale he sets the beer against his knee and finally pops it open with a cool hiss. 

Doll has a good system worked out, Jesse respects, envies, or is disgusted by it depending on his mood. She's got a special black ink infused with nanotags she uses any time someone wants to track their kills. But she doesn't take no one's word for it, oh no. If you wanted Dolly fucking Perez to make your notch then you brought her a witness, the story, and a left ear. Every kill required the same. Missing any one of those components meant you could huff and puff all you wanted, and hell from what Jesse heard plenty of men had tried, but she'd never budge an inch. 

At first he'd thought it was a clever way to make money. Later, when she was setting fifteen and sixteen into his arm, he realized it was a clever way to stay alive. 

All the local gangs were in, from Santa Fe to the Four Corners and Las Vegas; it was even reaching down toward the border now. She was the only referee in a game of murder that spanned two states. And because everyone was in and everyone wanted to know how they stacked up; she was untouchable. No one fucked with Dolly. No one stiffed her wages, ran her out of town, held her up on the highway while she rode solo or with the gangs from one end of the Southwest to the other on her shining silver hover bike. Sometimes people tried -- usually later they'd find themselves just a cross on another gangbanger's arm.

Jesse sips his beer and turns his attention to the inside of his left arm. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three; glistening and dark against his farmer's tan. Sixteen through twenty are peeling and itchy; last month's additions. The others are still fresh, all of them less than two years old. Dolly wipes blood off his arm again and applies a soothing gel to help him heal. "You're really racing em, huh kid? Gonna put guys twice your age in the dust, soon."

"Aw, nah," Jesse mumbles, hiding his uncertain tone in the lip of the beer can. "Some of these guys have been at this for decades. I'm not doing much."

Dolly sits back on her stool, knees spread, smoking her cigarette and favoring him with the 'boy you be dumb as a sack of potatoes' look he's getting used to in general and from er in particular. "Dumbass, half the boys around here couldn't shoot ground if you gave em directions and the rest only manage 'cause they got enough bullets to spray and pray. Half the time they don't even know who killed who and want me to give everyone a tick."

"Huh." Jesse looks down at his jeans, picks at a hole, and offers nothing more. Pretty sure he doesn't want to go on record admitting to _anyone_ that most of Deadlock couldn't shoot for shit. Staying humble's more'n likely the only thing that's kept him alive so far. "Sooo what's your point?"

_Now_ she shoots him a glare, shoves wiry hair away from her face and smacks his elbow until he moves, freeing up her table. "You're the shining star _now_ , everyone gets excited about a kid with potential. But what's going to happen when you start pushing the pros down the ranks?" Dolly leans down, her movements look fast and youthful in her aging body, and digs out a tablet. She pulls up a screen and taps through some pages. "Top thirty for Deadlock. Top hundred for the region."

Jesse feels his eyebrows climb and he lets out a low whistle. "You gotta be screwing with me, ma. No way twenty-four's all that much." 

"I started this up mid-Crisis." Dolly murmurs, still slowly scrolling through her sheets. "Most of you thugs only kill one or two. Just whatever you gotta do to secure your place. Only a handful are the real deal. Most of _them_ are my age. 

"Natural killers like you, only seen a few of em."

An ugly sort of pride twists in Jesse's stomach. He's good at it, he knows. Humility only runs skin deep. He doesn't know if he wanted to be a natural killer but he knows it's better than being a shitty one. 

He fidgets, tries not to look pleased, tugs at the brim of his hat. "Like the boss?"

"Harry?" Dolly laughs, a dry crackle that rolls around in her throat and never quite seems to get past her lips. "Nah. He's in the lead cause he's a cheat. Or as he puts it; a _business man_. Knows how to delegate. Soon he'll be telling you to shoot em in the leg and drag them to him to finish off. He never misses cause he never takes a shot more than five feet out."

Jesse tucks that away and doesn't comment. He sure as _shit_ isn't spreading any talk about the boss being a bad shot. 

Dolly continues without prompting, lighting herself a second cigarette off the butt of her first. "Nah, the real killers are all dead, honey. Most of em done in by their own." She shifts her gaze up to him, smoke curls out her nose while she speaks. "None of your gangbanger friends got skin so thick they can watch a little shit like you outshine em."

The sky is darkening but for some reason it's only getting hotter. Jesse slips off the stool, slaps his hips like he's shaking off the dust. It feels too warm to breathe. Dolly's smoke and the desert dust bake against the inside of his lungs.

And the look she gives him is pity. The only soft expression he'll ever see on her. 

"Get outta here, Deadeye. Before this road you're on takes a sharp turn off a high cliff."

\------------

"Shimada!"

A feminine voice chases him, clear and high and shamelessly loud. Hanzo squints up at the bright summer sun and debates walking faster.

"C'mon, Shimada! Don't make me run!"

He sighs and slows his pace, refusing to stop completely, and a moment later Valerie Taylor -- _Val_ , she insists -- bounds into pace beside him. She is shorter than him but has a presence that seems twice as large, and bumps his shoulder in energetic greeting. "Afternoon," he offers. 

" _Afternoon_ ," she returns with teasing emphasis. Probably making fun of his composure, though he often finds it difficult to pin down her humor. "Join me for drinks?"

He already knows how this conversation goes, but continues down the script anyway. Sometimes with her it's all he can think to do. "It's only five."

"Sooo?"

"And I have business to attend to."

" _Family_ business?" She murmurs, with a clever nudge at his ribs. He wonders what she thinks of the yakuza sometimes. Val is far from stupid, but she is also foreign and naive. Would she be so cheerful to know his criminal associations if he told her his father had asked him to assassinate a police officer who was causing trouble for several of their politicians? 

Probably not. 

So he does not tell her. He just says, "Yes, family business."

Valerie sighs, all dramatics, he can at least read when she is genuinely disappointed. "Shimada, my friend, I need you to do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Tell your family to go shove it."

Hanzo finally turns a sharp gaze her direction, though her shameless response startles him and he doesn't quite pull off the glare. But it is close enough; she raises both hands to ward him off, painted nails peaking in little rows before her neon purple wave of hair. "Just a little! _A little shoving_." 

She sounds so much like Genji at times. 

He rolls his eyes and keeps walking, and she needles gently at his arm. "University is supposed to be fun for you, man. You know, make friends? Try out new things? Figure your life out? _Date people?_ "

"My life _is_ figured out." He murmurs, tolerant of but ignoring her prodding.

She grumbles, displeased at that response but relents and they walk together with their own thoughts to the edge of campus.

In his two years attending Hanamura Public University, he had made exactly one friend. Which was exactly one more than he had expected. Hanzo hadn't entered university under the illusion he would become sociable; the name Shimada was renowned and teachers and students alike had given him wide berth all his life. The business degree, he felt, would be helpful, and easy enough to secure while still focusing on assuming the rest of his duties. He did not join any extracurricular clubs, and the only reason Val knew he existed was because they had many of the same classes.

One hot day last summer he had made the mistake of rolling up the arms on his sleeves as he left the campus. Val had spotted the heads of his dragons and lept at the chance to investigate. When he expressed reluctance to expose his tattoos further she had grinned, winked, and pulled up her layers of her then-green hair to display a shaved underneath, with a wiry western tattoo climbing down the back of her neck and onto her shoulders like spring branches. 

Six months later, over drinks, Val admitted she'd picked him out from the start. It was hard for her, a round, brightly colored, and thoroughly inked foreigner to make friends in the sleepy town of Hanamura. "But then I see this yakuza guy everyone whispers about in the halls and thought, shit, _he's_ in half my classes and doesn't have any better options!"

She had not been incorrect.

Before the turn that leads to Val's favorite izakaya she pauses, tugging on the cuff of his shirt. "You sure?" And then, slyly, "I invited Hiroki-san."

_Damn_. Hanzo feels his spine seize and shoulders square. He glares at her in hopes directing the heat out his eyes will prevent any of it pooling in his cheeks.

He doesn't know how Valerie had discerned he was interested in men, _or_ how she kept managing to figure out which ones. If the Shimada-gumi accepted foreigners he would recruit her to be an information gatherer. Her attempts to interfere in his deliberately non-existent lovelife were practiced maneuvers, executed months apart, each one catching him by surprise and targeting his interests. 

"I'm _busy_." He hisses at her, scanning around in case anyone was listening in. No one is, they are, as ever, left alone.

Valerie hums and taps her cheek with her cheek with a lacquered finger. "Well, tell me when you aren't and I'll invite him again. I can use tonight to dig up what he thinks of you."

Hanzo presses a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. His tone withers. "Please don't."

There is no immediate reply other than a sigh, and when he looks back to her she has tangled her thick fingers in violet curls. Her painted lips pull down in a discouraged slant. 

"What?" He asks, sullen.

Whatever it is, he she doesn't say. Instead she smiles, at least half-faked, and knuckles him in the shoulder. "Don't worry about it! Enjoy your time with the fam."

She steps back, spins, heads away to enjoy her night. After watching her round figure disappear around a corner he turns toward his home. He has plenty of time before the job tonight, but he would like to warm up properly. Perhaps if Genji is around they can spar.

It's still strange to him, having a friend who is not a member of the family. Genji collects them like it is his only passion, but Hanzo has always found the general populace to be fearful or untrustworthy as soon as his name comes out, and he does not have the tolerance to pretend to be anyone else. Perhaps it is just because he lacks Genji's charisma, and it takes someone as courageous as Val to make up the difference. 

But she will never join the Shimada, so he will never be able to be honest with her, and that perpetual implicit lie eats at him.

Perhaps it would be safe to at least explain that, as the future head of the family, he is expected to marry a Japanese woman. Then she might stop trying to help him find dates.

Hanzo returns home and changes in his room. Genji should be back from school already, if he had even gone, which was more and more in question as of late. Hanzo sends him a text asking for help warming up if he is available. Genji responds immediately; he's has a date later but is free for the next two hours.

They meet on the training grounds, Genji is bouncing, mood high, and Hanzo finds it infectious. They fight with boken; swords moving like lightning and meeting with thunderous claps. Hanzo's skill with a blade is high for his age, but consistently second to his brother's, so Genji takes the matches more often than not. Some days it is frustrating; tonight he instead feels a displaced sort of pride. His little brother and school chafe against each other like two badgers in a sack, and he knows Genji has no intention of attending university. But what does it matter? In a decade Genji's skill with a sword will be legendary. He will provide a key strength to their clan in the years to come. When responsibility of the Shimada falls to Hanzo, his tactics and Genji's ninjutsu will help the family secure territory previously thought beyond their reach.

Like Genji's weaknesses in academia, certain aspects of a mundane existence aren't for him. But with everything else he is promised, it seems selfish to want for more.

On the last match Genji's boken cracks across the back of Hanzo's shoulders. He hits his knees with a pained hiss, but a laugh is sandwiched between his heaving breathes. Genji comes round to crouch in front of him, as cheerful as he is confused. "I completely kicked you ass… Um. I'm glad you're taking it well."

"Feh," Hanzo huffs, smiling as he sits back on his heels, shifting at the satisfying pull of warm muscles off a good workout. "If you want something to brag about, let's get our bows."

"No thanks!" Genji bounces to his feet and offers Hanzo a hand, which he accepts.

As they part a chirp sounds from Genji's pocket and he curses, mutters that he lost track of the time, and turns to go with a wave. "I gotta go, Soichi's already here. Good luck tonight!"

Hanzo pauses in the process of gathering up Genji's abandoned boken. "Soichi?"

"My date! I told you!" Genji spins as he leaves, running nimbly backward so he can flash Hanzo with a brilliant, guileless smile. "He's really cute!"

Oh.

Hanzo tries to return the smile, but it falters. Not that Genji would notice, he is already gone. 

Hanzo puts away the equipment. Cleans up. Strings his bow for the mission. He sends Val a text with thanks her for her earlier invitation and hopes she is enjoying her night. 

He shouldn't envy his brother for being able to always do what Hanzo can not. But he feels it curling in his stomach just the same, corroding his earlier good mood. The second son has no expectations to live up to. Hanzo tries to recall if Genji has ever had to sacrifice anything for the family, and wonders, juvenile and bitter, if he will be ready when the need arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated for those who like tags.

The last official operation that Overwatch conducts against the Shimada-gumi is on November 3rd. It is a cold and wet night in Hanamura; not quite chill enough to freeze, so instead an unpleasant slush collects in the streets.

It isn't a large op; Genji is the only agent directly involved. After three years of continuous hits across the globe, the Shimada-gumi has receded into itself. They have been yanked from a throne of wealth built on illegal trade, that profited from the poverty and and desperation of others, and as their days dwindle intel suggests they are barely pulling in the profits necessary to be self-sustaining. 

For the first few years Genji had worked on and off with Overwatch or Blackwatch crews. They traveled all over Asia and into South America, raiding warehouses, interrupting supply lines, tracking down and capturing, or eliminating, key elements. It was never people Genji had met before. Hardly ever anyone he had even heard of. Perhaps his brother would have recognized them, by name if not by face. They might have visited the head of the clan at Hanamura at least once. But Genji had never been that closely involved. When they fall before his blade he feels nothing more than the satisfaction of peeling off a scab.

But as the Shimada weaken and their reach withdraws border by border, until it is confined within the narrow strip of Japan, Genji no longer has the comfort of distance. _Key elements_ become individuals with faces, families, and memories attached.

The operations also become smaller; lighter on manpower resources. Genji doesn't need help, he assures Captain Reyes again and again. It's just one target, just a couple, just a small business front. He's grown familiar with his body; there were few in the clan who could defend against his blade before, there are almost certainly none now.

It's better if he goes alone, he tells the captain. It's better if it's me, he tells himself.

After the November 3rd mission Genji returns to the small base of operations he has set up for himself several miles outside Hanamura. It's been a month since he convinced Captain Reyes to let him handle the final clean up of the Shimada himself. The Captain had agreed only on the condition that Genji brief him on his plans, both before and after, and back out if he takes damage. 

"Angela'll never let me hear the end of it if I let you head off on a fucking revenge quest and she's got to put you back together again." So Genji is careful to avoid injury.

The final call doesn't go well, though Genji can't guess why. He completed the job efficiently; target eliminated. The body likely hasn't even been found yet. 

But Reyes-san is in a strange mood; not angry, which happens often and is always obvious, but something more uncertain. Instead of asking Genji how the operation went he asks about the blood on him. Genji rarely _gets_ bloody, and he had forgotten to wash it off. He apologizes for his decorum, but thinks it is strange Captain Reyes would care. Stories of the man walking off battlefields dripping with dark omnic blood are legendary.

"Come on back." 

The command slips out of Reyes-san like an admission of defeat. Genji honestly thinks he's misheard. 

"Sorry?"

"You heard me." This time it sounds like an order, with extra aggravation on top because no one makes the captain repeat himself. "Get the hell back here. I've got a shuttle en route, it'll be there at 0730 your time. Pallas'll send you the coordinates. I want you on it."

Genji doesn't argue. He doesn't have the time to figure out what he'd be arguing against. The call ends, the shuttle eventually arrives, and after a sullen and confused mental debate he gets on it. He's flown back to Gibraltar.

It's not Captain Reyes that meets him when the shuttle lands, it's Commander Morrison.

At first Genji greets him casually, thinking the commander must be heading out. He waves, moves to give the older man space. Instead the commander looks him over with a brief but intense scrutiny that makes Genji worry he might have missed a spot when cleaning off the blood, then grunts out an order; "My office."

Going to Jack's office never, in Genji's experience, means anything good. The man is happy to be casual and comfortable in public, easy with displays of distant affection and camaraderie. The office is for lectures, being chewed out, brought down, or told bad news. 

The walk to the Commander's office is silent, and Genji uses it to put two and two together. 

It wasn't Captain Reyes' choice to bring him back, it was Jack's.

"Brief me on the status of Red Midnight." 'Red Midnight' being the name of the mission to rid the world of the Shimada-gumi's influence. Reyes-san came up with it.

_You didn't need to fly me in from Japan for that, Commander_ , Genji does not say. "The Shimada-gumi have little remaining influence outside of Japan, and even within Japan most of their operations have ground to a halt. They are unable to recruit and most younger members have abandoned the clan." Genji thinks his voice sounds clipped, professional, robotic. Like a real secret agent.

The commander nods, listening intently, arms crossed and one hip cocked. Genji continues. 

"And how long's that going to take?" The commander's face lets on nothing, not praise or disappointment. It nags at the edge of Genji's consciousness.

"Six months." Genji answers quickly; he has been thinking about this for some time. "Maybe less. There are approximately six-hundred members remaining under the Shimada banner, plus a handful of other allied groups who continue to support them. But at the top there are perhaps twenty-five with the power and proximity to the head that makes them essential targets in deconstructing the entire organization. Then…" There is the slightest hesitation while Genji reminds himself _not_ to hesitate, and the next words come out in a rush as if to fill in the tiny gap, "..there is the kumicho himself."

Finally a tendril of emotion curls into the commander's gruff voice: disgust."Your brother? Still."

"Yes."

Jack's eyes flicker closed for a beat, then he moves, turning away from Genji to examine a shelf full of photos. They're arranged chronologically, with many of the subjects having aged slightly each time they appear. "Always half-thought I'd hear that guy had run off. Especially after they everything overseas."

Genji shifts, wants to laugh, but it would be poor taste. The idea that his brother might abandon their family has never once occurred to him. "Hanzo has always been dedicated to the Shimada."

"Not _that_ much." The words tumble out of the commander as a low, disgruntled jumble under his breath. They both are and are not for Genji; a subtle gift he doesn't have to acknowledge. Then Jack clears his throat, sighs, and says, "I'm calling an official end to Operation Red Midnight."

Genji straightens and he feels his body kick over to an altered state with a low thrum, even though he stands frozen. It takes him a moment to collect a verbal response, which comes out stunted and confused. "You… can't."

"Huh, that's funny because I just did." The commander's tone is almost light, but when he turns back to face Genji his features are structured and serious.

" _Why?_ " He doesn't try to keep the incredulous alarm from his voice. The commander and captain have been acting strange since the end of the operation.

Jack frowns the same way Reyes-san had when Genji made him repeat himself, but when he explains himself his tone doesn't carry the layer of irritation at being questioned. "At this point it's a waste of resources and a drain on our political capital. The Shimada aren't a threat anymore."

"What resources?" Now he's scoffing, "I'm the only one _out there_."

"Ohh, and you think that means this op is _free_?" He's finally managing to irritate the commander. Sarcasm is returned for sarcasm. "A lone, unnamed operative killing Japanese citizens in their homes and businesses? We haven't officially claimed the attacks but we don't need to, everyone knows it's the same group that's been taking down yakuza syndicates all over the world."

Genji says nothing, widens his stance, simmers. Jack lets out a heavy breath and his shoulders loosen, like he doesn't want the fight that Genji is bracing for. "Look, Genji. The UN and Japan's prime minister have been up my ass for months. If the Shimada are only operating out of Japan now, then they're Japan's problem, and _boy_ do they not want our help."

The attempt to appeal to Genji's sympathy misses. Instead he feels a resentful energy boil up from inside. So that's it; politics again. Being raised in the family, he had taken for granted the ways law and policy can be ignored, skirted, and paid off. Overwatch does not act so differently, and at times is even more brazen in its disregard than the Shimada-gumi had ever been. But Overwatch is also massive, with reach that vastly outstrips the Shimada even at their most powerful. Concessions are made almost as often as envelopes pushed. 

When he finally settles on a response his words are embarrassingly sullen. He feels like a teenager again, chided for wanting to enjoy his own life instead of bowing to the responsibilities of his position. "You promised me this, Commander."

"I told you we'd help you get back at them." The commander extends a hand, and sweeps it aside when Genji doesn't respond. His voice edges a notch softer. "You've been locking them up or taking them out for three years, Genji. If you haven't gotten your fill of revenge yet, you're not going to."

That hardly seems like a fair claim when Hanzo still walks. But he can't say that; if he does the commander will ask why Genji didn't kill his brother when he had the chance. So he reaches for something else; "What did Captain Reyes say?" 

That's the wrong route. The commander's voice goes sharp. "Doesn't matter what he said, it's my call. Maybe you've forgotten, hanging out in Blackwatch so much, but _I'm_ his boss."

Genji can see where this is going. He isn't going to be given any options here, the man has obviously made up his mind. "Then I'll… do it myself."

"No you won't, look I already--"

"Without Overwatch." There is a heavy beat inside himself, between his words. He feels so tightly wound that if his throat were organic he doesn't think he would be able to spit the rest out. "I quit."

The commander freezes, brows lifted, one hand curled behind his neck. "Genji… You _can't_ quit." He doesn't sound angry, he sounds apologetic; like he's correcting a child.

Finally Genji takes a step forward, his lights flaring up, he slashes the air with his hand. "How can you stop me? I've already been doing it by myself. You really think I need Overwatch's help to finish? I don't care if Japan thinks I'm a criminal," he laughs, "I always _was_."

"Jesus," Jack huffs, sets his hands on his hips and waits a long beat. "You done?"

Genji nods and turns sharply, heading for the door.

" _Agent_." The commander's voice cracks through the room, Genji feels it vibrate through the soles of his feet, creating a disturbing dissonance with his own high strung vibration. He stops, shoulders hitched, and doesn't turn. "Resignation _not_ accepted, unless you've got some better plan than storming out and walking from here to Korea and then _swimming_ back to fucking Hanamura."

There isn't a _plan_ per se, but he's resourceful. That's _one_ thing his family hadn't failed to teach him. "I'll get there."

"How?" Genji can hear the shift of Jack crossing his arms, widening his feet. "You're not cleared to travel. You're officially _dead_."

"I don't exactly need a passport." The sulk is back in his voice, though Genji tries to bury it under derision. He half turns, uncomfortable with the commander's eyes boring into his back."

"Sure. Fine. Hell, I don't doubt for a second you could somehow make it happen. Sneak into Japan, finish off the rest of them, call it a day. The police would be lucky to even catch a glimpse."

Genji remains perfectly still, Jack just on the edge of his vision, waiting for the 'but'.

"But then what?"

Genji tilts his head and says nothing, Jack lets out an aggressive sigh. "That wasn't _rhetorical_. What comes after that? You said you only need six months? Alright. Where are you at in seven?"

Oh. 

Genji's focus shifts from the commander to the line of photos. Overwatch agents, year after year. Getting older, grayer. A teenage girl disappears for a while then reappears in a recent photo, mirror of her mother, tall and proud. Genji feels his shoulders hunch.

"I don't know. I can figure that out too."

Silence persists long enough that Genji considers turning to leave again. The commander has nothing to say, apparently, beyond grinding Genji's nose into his own poor planning. As if that had ever dissuaded him.

But not knowing what to do in seven months isn't as bad as not knowing what to do tomorrow.

"Okay," Jack sounds tired, relenting. "Let's make a deal."

Slowly, Genji turns back to the commander in increments; face, torso, hips. Jack is leaning back against his desk. 

"Stay here. Let me give you some other missions. There sure as hell isn't a shortage of places I could use someone gathering intel. You decide what it is that happens in month seven? Then go ahead and take off."

He doesn't like the idea. I feels like a relief. Like an escape. Like he's a coward for wanting the convenience. Like he is admitting that after four years he still has no idea what the hell he is doing, and he will never have the courage to settle anything with his brother.

But he does accept it, because he is a coward. 

Jack holds out his hand and Genji is forced to close the gap to shake on it. 

\--------------

It's almost a year later, while exchanging stories in the medical ward of the Swiss Watchpoint with a certain cowboy, that it occurs to Genji that the commander may not have ended the mission purely to avoid political fallout. 

The cowboy hears about Genji going up against his family and offers; "That's pretty fucked up" and "can't believe Jack signed off on that". The wary question that goes unasked is "are you okay?"

Genji's initial response is a cold distance, and the cowboy gets no more faux-camaraderie from him that day. But throughout the night Genji stews on it. He wonders how much the relief he had come to find in a steady stream of missions to divert his attention away from his family could have been intentional.

He has no trouble believing that Japan protested Overwatch's _overreach_ into their business. And certainly Genji's abilities had proven useful to Overwatch in other areas. The commander doesn't need any more motivation than that. 

Dr. Ziegler and the cowboy chat often. They banter like siblings, with a familiarity that leaves Genji stewing in quiet jealousy. At some point, a shared joke about Commander Dad emerges. The doctor laughs, elbows the cowboy, returns to her work, and Genji understands why they are both so quick to think the best of Jack Morrison.

It also nudges into place something about the commander that had been bothering him for the last year.

His own father had been open, cheerful, and distantly supportive. Genji has few, if any, recollections of his father lecturing him or inserting himself into Genji's choices. Certainly he'd never forbade Genji from inevitable errors. Nothing about the commander's frustrating intrusions, or his offers of help that come only after he has decided the best course for Genji remind him of his father.

It does, however, remind him of Hanzo.

\-----------------

The morning after they finally come to an agreement, Hanzo only has to wait an hour before the cowboy appears carrying his staple breakfast of eggs, beans, and spicy rice. 

They chat while they eat. The cowboy's mood is suspiciously good, but Hanzo leaves it uncommented on. McCree-kun informs him that he had been up late making good on his end of the bargain, and hands over a tablet that Hanzo may use for reading immediately. Clothing and other items should be arriving in a couple of days, with the bow being the most difficult and taking a bit longer.

When they are done eating, Hanzo informs the cowboy he intends to use his free time outdoors in the mornings, promptly at nine.

"No problem, Shimada-san." The cowboy tips his hat and digs into a bag resting at his side. "Just one thing first." He withdraws a large syringe filled with a dark liquid.

Hanzo scowls and keeps his hands resting on his knees to resist the urge to cross his arms defensively. "You're going to _drug_ me?"

"Haw, nope. Nothing like that. Just something to make sure you don't use any of those smooth ninja moves on me and take off." The cowboy grins at him and continues only after a long beat in which Hanzo's expression doesn't relax. He pulls at his stupid hat, almost sounding apologetic. "These are nanobots."

Ah, so that is it. Hanzo feels his mouth twisting into a disgusted grimace. "This was not part of the deal. You are _not_ putting those in me."

The cowboy makes a sucking sound against his teeth and pulls a theatrically good natured expression that reminds Hanzo of a beggar's innocence. "Aw, come on, don't be that way. If it's not this then it's handcuffs _and_ leg cuffs. We can do it but you ain't gonna enjoy the sunshine much if you can't move around in it."

The idea of shuffling out of the cell bound like a common lowlife on some daytime crime show is irritating. But nanobots can have thousands of different uses, including mapping and manipulating brain activity. He is truly repulsed at the idea of a faction like Overwatch having them in his system.

Then again, if Overwatch wanted to force such devices into him, he would not be able to prevent it. The question is not whether or not he trusts the cowboy, just which indignities he suffers willingly. His lip curls. "What's their function?"

"Some of em to keep track of you, the rest will intercept motor signals in the nervous system if you leave the base or go anywhere _on_ base you aren't allowed to. Or you know, attack someone. Break the rules and you go down like a sack of potatoes until me or Lightning can come pick you up."

It's an efficient countermeasure. The Shimada-gumi had never needed such a system as they had sufficient capable manpower and no desire to trust an artificial intelligence to the monitoring of their home. He supposes that, once again, Blackwatch has different methods.

"Up to you, Shimada-san," the cowboy drawls.

Hanzo contains a sigh and scoots forward until he can hold his fist out through the bars, wrist up and inner arm exposed.

The cowboy's unexpectedly bright grin breaks out again, and to spite it Hanzo pulls his arm back just as the man's fat fingers close around his wrist. "Do you know what you're doing?"

This only makes McCree's smile turn sharp. "Hoss, please."

He doesn't elaborate further, but the cowboy's cocky swagger is so seamless Hanzo almost feels his _faked_ concerns are groundless, and he allows his arm to be tugged back past the bars.

McCree tightens a band around Hanzo's upper arm, finds his vein easily, and Hanzo fails to suppress an involuntary shiver as the liquid is forced into his bloodstream. He has no doubt the nanobots can do what has been promised, as well as much more. Hanzo soothes his concerns with the knowledge that his life is effectively meaningless now anyway, so whatever Blackwatch might derive from the constant invasion of his privacy must be just as valueless.

The melancholy thoughts serve as a helpful reminder. He orders the cowboy to bring a bottle of sake along, and though the man appraises him with the same judging eyes as anyone who has a problem with his habits, since he has nothing helpful to say he keeps his mouth shut.

The final obstacle between him and breathing fresh air turns out to be a heavy black blindfold and a pair of earplugs.

Hanzo is past wanting to argue about their precautions. He supposes he should be glad the cowboy isn't underestimating him, or using the nanobots to cut off his sight and hearing, but since the idea of escape is increasingly daunting the extra inconvenience only adds insult. He makes his distaste obvious but accepts them anyway; he had already committed to playing along for the time being. He may as well not be _too_ disagreeable at the outset.

With his senses effectively dulled he waits as the cowboy opens the door and guides him from the cell with a hand on his shoulder.

Hanzo counts steps, memorizes corners, makes note as the texture of the floor changes from solid stone to cheap linoleum to thin carpet. Each door they pass through opens without the cowboy needing to slow them, but Hanzo recognizes the entryways by a shift in air pressure. He can feel the cowboy's heavy steps vibrate up his sensitive cybernetic feet. 

The whole endeavor is humiliating, and Hanzo has to resist turning on the cowboy in a desperate attempt to keep his pride from curling in on itself and disappearing.

He can tell they are getting closer to an exit as the air loses its stale scent, and when the final door opens and a chill breath of air greets him. A knot in Hanzo's chest, that had become so tight he felt concave, unclenches with a tremor and he reaches up to remove the blindfold. Hesitating only at the last moment.

Beside him the cowboy says something that Hanzo can't hear, then tugs the blindfold up. Hanzo removes his earbuds as well.

It has only been three days since he's seen the sun, but he spent most of them in various stages of physical regret and idle contemplation of his inevitable death. The cool morning leeches some of that away immediately, lifting it off his skin like a stain.

The pleasure of it must be apparent on his face, because the cowboy is smiling at him. "Hell, it's not much, but I guess it'll do after the week you've been having."

As if that week wasn't entirely the cowboy's fault. Hanzo holds a glare on the American until his grin withers, and then brushes forward to inspect the courtyard.

It appears to be a hybrid exercise and recreation area. There is a track beaten into the ground amid wild grass, a shed in the corner, and several handfuls of trees clustered together, forming irregular groves of shade. A climbing wall is set into the building they had just emerged from, and the only exit is also the entrance. The entire area is enclosed in twenty foot walls on three sides with the fourth being an orange painted multi-story building that disappears into the cliff face. Hanzo can hear but not see the ocean somewhere beyond the courtyard.

"This place is strictly for Blackwatch, so I don't gotta worry about you crossing paths with anyone else." The cowboy offers, trailing along behind Hanzo as he explores. 

Hanzo has questions about that. This area is far too small for a sizable organization. Just how many members does Blackwatch have? How closely interlinked are they with Overwatch? Was it Blackwatch or Overwatch that destroyed his clan, and does the distinction even matter?

But suddenly he has no immediate motivation to interrogate the cowboy. He stops by one of the shady trees and sets his reading tablet against it, gestures for the American to leave the sake there as well, and adjusts the tightness of his jumpsuit around his waist. Once he's satisfied it won't come loose while he exercises, he lifts his gaze to find the cowboy's gaze once again lingering on him. 

Hanzo meets his eyes with a raised eyebrow and McCree folds instantly, looking away with a grimace.

It had been something of a surprise to realize the cowboy is so chagrined by his undeniable interest. Hanzo had tested it with the 'threat' of showering in front of the man and not been at all disappointed. Somehow he would have guessed an American who wore cosplay to work and blatantly disregarded international law would be just as unconcerned about other rules of engagement. Apparently not. 

The cowboy watches him from the corner of his eye and Hanzo smirks. "If you must monitor me despite your nanobots, at least do so from a distance. I don't care if you enjoy the view but _I_ want to enjoy the sound of your silence."

"Compadre, believe me I ain't--"

Hanzo doesn't hear the rest of it. The cowboy's complaints disappear, lost under the steady padding of his own feet hitting first the grass, then packed dirt. He starts at an easy jog until his joints adjust to swift movement again, then accelerates to a run that doesn't stop until he is dripping sweat and collecting air in heavy gasps. 

It works better than meditation, almost as well as alcohol. Burns all thought out of him for as long as he doesn't stop. 

But when he _does_ stop he feels sick, between last night's alcohol and this morning's large breakfast. He resists the urge to vomit, mostly through long practice, and instead drinks heavily from a water fountain. Tomorrow he would allow his food more time to settle instead of pushing himself immediately just to tweak the cowboy.

For the rest of the morning he reads on his tablet, getting familiar with its set up and perusing international news. There is no point to trying to hide what he is reading, as it is most certainly being monitored, and he finds that while his access to news seems to be unlimited, he can only take information in. Anything he might use to send communication is locked down; he can't so much as leave an anonymous comment on an article.

Nothing from Japan mentions the disappearance of a local crime boss. 

His mind flickers back to the dream of Watanabe-kun telling the clan of his disappearance, and the inevitable conclusion by all that he had finally died in a ditch.

Hanzo moves on to world events; buries himself in the escalating tensions of the United Kingdom and Overwatch's inept handling of the situation.

Eventually the omnic arrives. Though it stays close to the cowboy, and never moves to interrupt Hanzo, its mere presence disturbs him and he finds his gaze flickering to it again and again. 

The way it moves is uncanny. Far more fluid and humanoid than he had ever noticed from an omnic, yet at times so still a human would never unconsciously replicate it. It has a habit of flickering out and spinning around shuriken like it is burning off excess energy. It taps its padded feet and sways in the cowboy's direction with a grace suspiciously reminiscent of affection.

Had the omnic always been like this? 

Hanzo encountered it himself twice in the years it had terrorized his clan. Once overseas and once in his home just before the attacks ceased completely. Both times Hanzo had felt the sense of fury radiating off the machine to be disorienting in its intensity. But he had discarded the questions that arose as a result; he had imagined it, or it was a reflection of his own anger and nothing more. Few words had been exchanged back then, and Hanzo had given up on the idea of obtaining useful information from the machine quickly.

Omnics are permitted into the clan at the lower ranks, and have been useful for information gathering or moving illegal materials. But even those few pathways were only opened after their allies pushed for it and the previous head conceded. Hanzo himself has had few interactions with the machines. They are unwelcome all over the world, but particularly so in Japan, which saw a resurgence in xenophobia following the Crisis.

He now finds himself woefully under-educated to determine how unusual this particular model of omnic might be. Most likely it is a pet project created by Overwatch, like the organization's many other technological advancements. AI technology is developing rapidly, and if it were combined with a more fluid robotic body it might yield something more humanoid than the machines mass produced by the now defunct Omnica Corp. 

Though that sounds dangerous. Creating an upgraded model of man-like machine when the current ones are still often unaccepted world wide is the exact level of hubris Overwatch is facing criticism for.

Thoughts like these interrupt him long enough that he eventually lets out a frustrated sigh and turns his search away from world politics. Instead he buries himself in articles arguing about the humanity of machines, robotics development, and Overwatch.

\------------------

No one else arrives in the courtyard. Hanzo spends the rest of his four hours outdoors sipping his sake and reading opinion pieces for and against the acknowledgement of AI humanity. A group of omnic 'monks', who have supposedly reached 'enlightenment' and attained celebrity status as a result, clog his search results and he finds nothing that sheds light on the existence of a machine like Lightning. 

The omnic is the one who finally interferes on Hanzo's solitude to take him back to his cell; the cowboy having left for other matters hours ago. And though they exchange a few barbs, Hanzo goes without argument. The omnic guides him with two fingers jabbing at Hanzo's spine in a way he takes to be deliberately irritating.

Once in his cell he finds the cowboy has left him a small portable burner, a cast iron tea pot, a stack of packaged noodles, and a note asking what teas he wants. 

Hanzo exercises again, showers, eats, smokes, meditates, and continues his reading until dinner rolls around. The cowboy brings a bowl of what he calls 'chili' which sets Hanzo's nose running again. They eat and talk with the bars between them, because the security AI refuses to open the door to Hanzo's cell while McCree-kun has no back up.

When Hanzo comments on the cowboy's peculiar relationship with AI, the American feigns ignorance. When Hanzo presses him for details on the omnic named Lightning, McCree-kun says that if Hanzo is so curious, he ought to talk to it himself.

The rest of their conversation for the evening revolves around the Kokan-kai. They smoke and Hanzo shuffles through information on underground trade routes moving through South Korea. He's almost surprised by how much he remembers, considering the years since the Shimada-gumi had international weight.

At ten o'clock the cowboy tips his hat goodnight and Hanzo is left to finish off the bottle of sake he'd been sipping from all day. He exercises once more and sleeps before midnight.

\-----------------------

The next three days pass very similarly, and Hanzo finds himself grateful for the routine. The omnic and the cowboy trade off taking him to and from the cell, but Hanzo demands they not interrupt his free time in the fresh air and they both respect that. 

In a way it feels like a detox. Not from his vices, which he requires the cowboy keep him in stock for, but from the rest of his life. He becomes increasingly comfortable with the idea that he may not escape, and that his life is coming to a close. At times his anxiety spikes sharply at the idea, guilt eating at him for finding any relief in finally being free of his duties as the head of the family. But it is difficult to convince himself that _doing_ his duty is better for any of them.

Those who remained in the Shimada-gumi did so because they were loyal to him or his father personally. Both qualities Hanzo appreciates deeply, but their genuine love does nothing to change the fact that Hanzo's reign had been a disaster from start to finish. 

The quiet death of their last leader in the bowels of Overwatch is a less dignified end than an ancient house like his deserves, but he expects that is the best he will manage. 

And anyway, he's grown accustomed to how far short of his own ideals he falls.

\-----------------

Only two events of special interest occur during his first few excursions to the courtyard. 

The first on the second day, when after an hour of watching Hanzo read the cowboy starts using the exercise field for its intended purpose. Hanzo sips sake, catches up on the day's current events, and periodically glances up to see the American working his way through an impressive regimen of push-ups, sit-ups, weightlifting, and jogging. Somewhere in the middle of it the sweat collecting on his brow forces him to finally abandon his ridiculous hat, and since he hadn't been able to wear his oversized boots to begin with, the cowboy starts to look halfway toward a normal human being. 

McCree grimaces through each set, grumbles between them, and it becomes obvious that he's the type to find rigorous exercise closely related to torture. Hanzo finds this makes watching him more appealing. 

After a break to catch his breath and turn a hose up over his head -- plastering a thin t-shirt to his broad frame so effectively that Hanzo would wager it is intentional -- the cowboy dusts his hands, belts himself into a safety harness, and tackles the faux-rock wall attached to the exterior of the building. The cowboy doesn't scale walls like a ninja. He is slow, and he complains each time he hauls his huge body to the next handhold, either through hoarse breaths or a string of miserable explicatives. Hanzo realizes this the best entertainment he's had in days and wanders closer.

When he reaches the base of the climbing wall the cowboy is about ten feet short of the top, and coaching himself in a gruff voice that he can slog through the rest. Something that sounds like "fuck reiez' is muttered like a motivational mantra.

Hanzo squints at the height of the wall and shifts his weight while he debates. He has been drinking slightly more heavily than the day before, but he is hardly _inebriated_ , and a wall like this is nothing to him. So he chooses a path just to the left of the cowboy and grabs the first available handhold, tugging himself up and proceeding to the next. He doesn't bother with the footholds -- his prosthetic legs offer him traction nearly as good and trying to line up his feet would only waste time -- but using the rocks for his upper body makes up for the lack of proper climbing gloves. The stretch and pull of his muscles create an easy rhythm, and he pulls himself an armslength higher with the steadiness of a metronome. In twenty seconds he has by passed the the cowboy and in thirty he has completed the course.

Hanzo hauls himself onto the rim of the wall, thirty feet off the ground, and looks down to find the cowboy still a few feet short. His mangy brown features shift from amazement to discouraged embarrassment. Excellent. Hanzo smirks down at him. "Would you like a hand?"

"I got it, _thanks_." McCree-kun is silent for the next minute as he finishes his climb, huffing and puffing like a lidded pot letting off steam.

Hanzo shuffles a cigarette out of a half empty pack and lights it up while the cowboy catches his breath. He shouldn't be so pleased at showing up a novice, but perhaps that novice shouldn't have derailed his life and set himself up as Hanzo's unwitting executioner. 

"You ninjas are real show offs, you know," the cowboy complains next to him, pressing his damp back up against the chill stone of the building behind them. Despite having recently hosed off Hanzo can easily feel his heat radiating into the cool morning air.

"Me and… the omnic?" Hanzo snorts. "Can machines show off their physical prowess now?"

The cowboy grunts noncommittally, "Dunno who decides who gets to do what, but Lightning's pulled that same stunt on me at least a dozen times."

Hanzo is once again reminded of the man's odd relationship with AI. Does it offend him when Hanzo calls an omnic's worthiness into question? Knowing that the omnic had beat him to the joke lowers his enjoyment of it somewhat. He redirects the subject. "You are putting in a great deal of effort for something you obviously hate."

"Don't hate the job." The cowboy finds a cloth in his pocket. He mops his brow and the back of his neck. "My boss is like you. Friggin' loves getting up every morning. Works himself like a dog and it makes him just as happy. He was in the military though; think he got a bit brainwashed."

"Your boss?" Hanzo's question is mild. His eyes focus out, over the walls.

The cowboy glances away from the horizon to Hanzo with a tired grin. "Not telling you more than that. You'll meet him when he wants to meet you. Til then the less you know the safer you are." Hanzo snorts at the idea that his safety concerns either of them, but doesn't voice his disdain, and McCree holds out one of his massive paws. "Anyway, give me one of them smokes."

Hanzo lifts his eyebrows at the presumptiveness. "This is my last."

"Nuts to that," the cowboy grumbles. "Who the hell lights up in front of another man when you aren't gonna share?"

"One of us can always go to the corner store to pick up more." Hanzo reminds him, but his voice is as cool and easy as the morning. It's calming up here, where he is able to almost make out where sky meets sea far in the distance, and in the presence of the cowboy who is perpetually over warm even in the chilly shadow of the cliffside. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, watches the paper burn down toward the halfway mark, and lets the smoke go in an exhaustive exhale. 

The cowboy is watching him. Hanzo no longer gets surprised when he catches it, and McCree-kun and his mud brown eyes are getting slower at darting away every time Hanzo does. When the cowboy finally submits and breaks Hanzo's gaze, Hanzo removes the half finished cigarette from his mouth holds it out in offering. His fingers stop just millimeters from the cowboy's face. 

"You can finish it."

Hanzo expects the cowboy's expressions to once again shuffle through a range of embarrassed and aggrieved emotions. Instead he stares at the half burnt cigarette, follows the line of Hanzo's arm to his face, and then looks skyward like he's sending off a prayer. "Darlin' , you're gonna be the end of me." The cowboy breathes a sigh, parts his lips, and the pads of Hanzo's fingers warm from both as McCree tips forward just enough to capture the shared cigarette. "And hell if you don't know it."

Hanzo withdraws his hand and presses his fingertips against the cool stone at his side to sap away the American's warmth. 

McCree is wrong about who will be ending who, but Hanzo can admit, at least to himself, that he is enjoying the cowboy thinking himself the one trapped.

\------------

The second event is less noteworthy and more humiliating, and occurs as the omnic escorts Hanzo back to his cell after his third outdoor excursion. 

This time the omnic doesn't guide him at all, leaving Hanzo to navigate the hallway by memory. Behind him, the gentle tapping of the omnic's lithe frame barely register in his cybernetic feet, but he can feel someone heavier approaching. Unable to see or hear, Hanzo first wonders if the heavy vibration isn't caused by something falling over, or someone banging on door. But, as the tremors increase in strength while the rhythm holds steady, he recognizes it as heavy footsteps.

Hanzo stiffens. So far he had seen no one other than the cowboy and omnic. It seems unlikely the base is unpopulated but Hanzo has taken that to mean he is being deliberately moved around other members. Now someone strange and _massive_ approaches with no warning and he doesn't trust the omnic well enough to not assume a trap. 

His free hand flies up to remove his blindfold, and down a narrow, blue-grey hallway approaches a huge man who obstructs nearly the entirety of it. The silhouette is instantly recognizable; drunk and in dim lighting, he had wondered why anyone would leave a boulder in an alley in Hanamura.

The boulder appears unarmed, but given that he has half a meter on Hanzo and surely more than twice his weight, it does little to make him less imposing. His face is hidden behind a porcine gas mask, his clothing looks like tattered armor collected from a junkyard, and that is all Hanzo manages to register before the lower half of his body folds out and he finds himself dropping heavily.

It's a strange experience; he has not had _near_ enough to drink for this.

Hanzo can barely hear his own surprised curse past the earplugs. He clutches his sake bottle and tablet to his chest lest they be damaged in the fall.

But he never crashes. He's caught on something; a cool hand hooked under his right arm holds him, suspended. The omnic.

A couple of heartbeats pass. Hanzo notices a faint vibration passing from the omnic's fingers into his skin. With the earbuds in he can't tell if it says anything, and his vision ahead is eclipsed by the massive pigman who hadn't slowed his approach.

The omnic drops him. Hanzo's ass hits the linoleum, his shoulders jerk, and he finally remembers the damn nanobots. Of course. He had broken the rules. That had been quick; the AI must be monitoring him closely.

But now that he can see, not being able to hear is only more aggravating, and he plucks out both ear buds. The sound of _laughter_ immediately rings in his ears and Hanzo realizes with a flush it is the omnic. Its tinny reverberation and fluid roll of cackling once again merge into something Hanzo finds uncanny. 

He dismisses it, reaching back to shove at the machine as if it might actually leave him be, and glares up at the huge man who has stopped just a few feet short of them. Hanzo can only just make out the mask past his massive, tattooed stomach. "Who are you?"

"Roadhog." The man has a voice like an exhaust pipe. His voice isn't smokey, it's _charred_ and more wind comes out of him than noise. His words take Hanzo a second to translate.

"Road… hog?" Familiar. " _You_ made the cookie?"

"Yep." Roadhog's whole frame heaves as he takes a thick breath through his mask. Hanzo resists the urge to shove the man back by his protruding stomach, mostly because he is certain the effort would be humiliatingly futile. "You tried one?"

"Yes, I--"

"You're getting cookies?" The omnic interrupts. "Wow, McCree really spoils you."

It's voice is too close. Hanzo turns his head to find it bending over him. 

"What did you think?" The pigman again. When Hanzo looks forward again he can't tell if Roadhog has actually edged closer or if Hanzo is simply getting claustrophobic.

"Enough!" His fingers tighten around his sake. "This is ridiculous, let me stand!"

The omnic leans against the wall, radiating amusement. "Guess you shouldn't have taken the blindfold off, Hanzo."

Hanzo squawks, "A _mountain_ was approaching!"

"You guys are in my way," Roadhog breathes. The words are deceptively casual. Hanzo can't tell if he is being threatened or if man himself just feels like so much of one that _anything_ he says will set Hanzo's spine straight. Especially when he is this helpless. 

Hanzo glares back at the omnic.

"Alright, alright." The omnic holds up both hands as if to fend him off. "Pallas, it's okay."

Pallas? Ah. The cowboy's _Pal_. The name of the AI.

Hanzo feels his legs responding to him again and scrambles to his feet, the only after effects of the nanobots interference is a faint tingling.

Standing, Roadhog is not any less imposing, but Hanzo at least feels less disadvantaged. His own breaths come out of him in harried heaves and he struggles to gather his dignity. After several long beats staring the pigman in his mask Hanzo provides a fractional bow. "The cookie was very good. Thank you."

Hanzo tightens as one of Roadhog's titan limbs shifts, but all it does is form a quiet thumbs up with a hand larger than Hanzo's head.

Then, with deliberate slowness, the thumb tucks down making a fist that occupies most of Hanzo's vision.

"Now, move."

Hanzo moves, sliding to the side until his back is pressed against the wall of the narrow hallway. He feels the omnic do the same next to him, and Roadhog passes them both, his bulk brushing over them as he does.

The trembling thumps continue to register in the soles of his feet with each step, growing softer as Roadhog opens a hall door and enters. Hanzo realizes he should be offended but can't quite find it in himself to have expectations of social decency of what reminds him less of a man than it does an earthquake personified. 

He glares at the omnic instead. "Is _anyone_ here normal?"

The omnic turns up his palm, and the gesture rolls up his arm into a slow shrug. "Overwatch, man. It's a weird place sometimes."

\-------------

Genji does his best to give his brother space. It's obvious that McCree's relaxed demeanor goes over with Hanzo better than the company of 'the omnic' that had murdered so much of his family. In search for distractions he ends up helping a perplexed but grateful maintenance crew with a fresh coat of paint on the exterior of Watchpoint's highest towers, then Winston with repairs to a damaged array, and Captain Reyes by watering his cactus at 0100 on a Saturday night and pestering him until he actually leaves the base for the first time in a week. The cactus and captain babysitting being a request submitted by McCree.

The cowboy himself Genji steers wide of. His willing helpfulness in watching Hanzo is appreciated, but it takes up several hours of his friend's day, and now that operations are being drawn up to go after the Kokan-kai, McCree does not have nearly so much time to spare. 

And anyway, as Genji had learned over the years, it is easier not to deal with something you don't look directly at. 

Since the night Hanzo and had reached an agreement with Blackwatch, Genji feels at once light and fragile. Like if he approaches any part of the situation in the wrong way it will shatter. But he has never had any delicacy to spare his brother. And he wonders, now, if that had not been his last mistake he as a Shimada. If they wouldn't both be living very different lives if he hadn't had so little patience for the clan after his father's death.

So each day he puts in his hours watching Hanzo while he makes his peaceful use of the rec yard, locks him away in his cell, and then goes to busy himself elsewhere until his brain begins to slog and he goes to sleep it off.

Sleep had been coming easily again, at least, and he is grateful for that. He passes more and more hours that way.

But the avoidance doesn't go unnoticed, and on the fifth day since the deal, McCree appears in front of him with two bags, one paper and one plastic, and shoves both at Genji. Genji collects both bags onto his one working hand, and wonders when he will stop being surprised at McCree's sixth sense for knowing when to track him down and give him work.

"Alright pardner, your turn."

Genji senses he knows what this is about, but opts to play ignorant in hopes that he is wrong. "My turn for what...?"

McCree hooks his thumbs on his belt. "You got Hanzo feeding duty tonight."

Shit. Genji's lights flicker he wonders why he's let himself leave so much of the burden on his friend, who really shouldn't be involved at all. "Sorry… He driving you crazy already?"

"Aw, nah. It ain't that." McCree shuffles his feet and thumbs at the ridge of his belt. "We're getting along alright, actually. He calmed down a hell of a lot once he started getting booze and sunlight."

McCree's response is unexpectedly shy, and Genji edges into the cowboy's space. He forces a teasing note into his voice. "Sooo I guess you're friends now?"

" _Hell_ ," McCree snorts, Genji can't quite tell if it's out of humor or disgust or something else; a suspicious non-answer that Genji can make nothing of. And a moment later McCree distracts him by pressing the hat onto his head. "Pretty sure he'll still cut me open if he gets a chance. Anyway, you got about ten minutes to get down there. Your brother's a real stickler for time."

"The _prisoner_ can probably learn some patience." Genji snips, but takes a few quick steps back, out of reach. "I'm keeping your hat."

McCree waves him off, "Bring it back later and tell me how it went." Genji is turning to leave when he hears McCree clear his throat and peddles back a step to listen. "Also, er. Just a heads up. He might be pretty sloshed."

Huh. The information doesn't bother Genji, in fact it might make things go more easily. He hasn't seen Hanzo drunk in a decade at least, but it had always been pretty entertaining. Still, it seems strange that McCree has anticipated it. "Did you say something to him?"

"Naw, just noticed he wasn't drinking outside today. Figure he's saving it up to burn off some braincells tonight." McCree's drawl elongates when he's hiding something.

Strange, but Genji is inclined to think McCree has earned his secrets. He shrugs. "I guess it's fine if you don't want to deal with him when he's shitfaced. Why do you keep giving him so much sake?"

McCree grins at that, just a thing wry slash of teeth."I'm doing us all a favor. A man can only unlearn so many bad habits at once."

"He isn't unlearning _any_ right now, he just sits in a cage all day."

Speaking of bad habits, McCree is fishing for his cigarettes again. Had he actually cut back at all? "He's unlearning being a yakuza. Not doing too bad either."

Genji makes a thoughtful humming noise. When had McCree's opinion of Hanzo gotten so high? Or had the cowboy always just been that soft and Genji hadn't noticed it himself back when he was too miserable to appreciate it?

Either way, he's sure it speaks better of the cowboy than his brother.

He tips his head at McCree, brim of the hat dipping briefly into his vision, and continues his exit. "I think he's just taking you for a ride, cowboy."

\----------------------------

McCree is right about the drinking. Genji can smell the alcohol as soon as he opens the door to cells. And even if that wasn't obvious, the fact that he finds Hanzo sitting with his back up against the bars would be a dead give away. A _sober_ Hanzo would never get so cocky as to deliberately let his guard down like that.

"Hah, the cowboy shows his colors." Hanzo acknowledges him without turning. "Good evening, _Lightning-san._ " It's the first time Hanzo has used the alias, and even now he says it like he is playing along with a joke.

Every time he encounters Hanzo he half expects it to click somehow. Something he does or says will trigger in Hanzo's memory and his brother will recognize him. Yet it has been a week since he knocked his brother out in Hanamura and still Hanzo still had not recognized him. 

Genji tries to find reassurance in McCree's story. Tries to understand how absurd the idea would be from his brother's perspective. But each time his brother assumes him to be an omnic despite Genji making little effort to appear anything other than what he is, it hollows out a slightly larger place inside of him.

"So, you have to be drunk to even use my name." Genji approaches the bars on soft steps, and though Hanzo must notice he doesn't stir from his drunken lounge. 

"I still prefer 'the omnic', but I'm starting to think that may be… inaccurate."

Genji stills, frozen between an embarrassing hope he is finally discovered and a fear from having no idea what that would mean. 

Even drunk, Hanzo senses the moment of weakness and finally turns, smirking at Genji over his bare shoulder. " _Hah_. I am right. Your tells are very human." Genji says nothing, knowing a smug Hanzo is a talkative one, and after a beat his brother continues. "I have been reading up on you. Well, _them_. Omnics." Hanzo squints up at him, rotates in place so his left shoulder is against the bars. "You are wearing that stupid cowboy's stupid hat."

Genji wants to laugh at that, but he is wound too tight by Hanzo's observations. He crouches and sets the bags McCree had foisted off on him down next to the cell door. "He lets me borrow it, sometimes."

"Borrow it." Hanzo repeats, tone flat. He wraps his hand around a bar and edges closer as he lowers his voice. "I have a question."

Genji shifts on the balls of his feet. It's tempting to lose himself in this game. Play along with drunk Hanzo, just like old times. His brother was always more entertaining once he'd unwound a little. 

But it's so nostalgic it's painful. His voice, when he finds it, is decisively robotic. "Go ahead."

"Is the cowboy a robophiliac?"

Hanzo asks the question with utter seriousness, like it has been burning on his mind for days, and that _tone_ is what finally surprises a laugh out of Genji. It does nothing to ease his tension, but the noise jitters out of him, low and weak, just the same. "What the hell?"

For not taking the question as seriously as Hanzo did, Genji earns a scowl. "You and the AI, he's fond of you both." Hanzo pulls away with a shrug, like he has remembered he doesn't care after all. He scoops up his cup of sake and directs his attention there. "He guards your secrets closely."

His brother's sullen admission tentatively warms the cold hollow in his gut. "McCree is a good person, and a good friend." He decides to let the robophilia comment pass by; tempting as it was to spread gossip, he wasn't going to ruin a perfectly good week of avoiding thinking about his growing attraction to his friend by letting his drunk, estranged brother onto it. "You were trying to grill him on me?"

Hanzo grumbles, finishes off his cup of sake, and then reaches between the bars for the smaller of the bags Genji had set down. "The world has much to say about omnics right now, but not a single omnic I investigate is anything like you."

The bag contains a toasted sandwich wrapped in a napkin ( _lazy_ , Hanzo mutters), and two dark brown cookies frosted with sugar stars, bombs, and pigs. Hanzo is more excited about those and carefully folds the bag to make a mat to rest the treats on.

_Guess you never grew out of that sweet tooth_.

The nostalgia and Hanzo's questions merge in his head. He feels too close to it all, suddenly. What if Hanzo _does_ recognize him, and the past and the present collide. What if that collision is explosive? It isn't all childhood memories of his older brother primly saving his sweets for last and only ever sharing when his mood was particularly good.

Genji's lights dim. His cybernetics whirl a fraction faster. He considers standing up, escaping to somewhere that he can breathe. Even though, of course, he can't really breathe anywhere.

When the silence persists too long it disturbs Hanzo's preoccupation with his dinner. He looks up, scowls. "What? Why are you staring at me?"

Genji can think of a dozen answers to that question immediately. He says none of them. Instead he nudges Hanzo back onto the previous track. "So, you think I'm not an omnic?"

Hanzo squints, and Genji is sure his brother caught him directing the conversation this time, but he doesn't resist it. "I do not see how you can be."

"What's that make me, then?" Genji tries to sound unperturbed. Like this is a joke. Like he hasn't been waiting for this conversation for eight years.

"Hm. I have two theories." Hanzo stops scrutinizing him in favor of digging into his sandwich, and though Genji feels himself relax in increments when Hanzo's attention diverts, he also is tempted to knock the food out of his hand and demand stupid drunk brother _focus_.

"Oh," Hanzo murmurs around his food, then peels off the top layer of toast. "There's egg in this."

_Fuck_. " _Hanzo_." Is this punishment? Is his brother being too drunk to uncover his identity what he gets for all of the parties, sex, and his own inebriated neglect? 

Hanzo hums, his periscopic focus rising out of the bottle to turn on Genji again. Hanzo chews at his sandwich, slow and methodical; crumbs that would drive him crazy later drop to the cell floor. Before he finishes chewing he smiles, and once he has swallowed he grins. "You _want_ me to guess. Does it bother you? To be taken for an omnic?"

Genji has the impulse to toy with a shuriken. He stops himself. What would Hanzo even read into that habit? "I've gotten used to it."

"Has anyone else guessed?" 

"No one has _guessed_. Not even you."

Hanzo's attention is wandering again. He makes a bed of a napkin, places his sandwich on it, and begins to take it apart from the top down. The toast is cracked into fourths. His tone is conversational and benign, conveying a casual apathy that makes Genji want to walk out all over again. "I have two theories.

"The first is that you are a secret advanced robot...ics experiment by Overwatch. An AI who can nearly replicate a human in every way, combined with hardware more humanoid and more deadly." Hanzo sets down the pieces of his sandwich puzzle and refills his sake cup instead, then turns an arch look at Genji as he continues. "I _liked_ this idea. I think Overwatch would do this; create such a machine and then hide it from the world. Let it loose on the underground."

Genji says nothing. He doesn't fidget, doesn't shift; his body doesn't need to move so he forbids it to do so.

Hanzo sips his sake, savors it, leans sideways against the bars. "But if that were the case Overwatch would have sent more than one. And anyway, it explains nothing else."

Hanzo goes quiet again; shifts his gaze to Genji again. Smirks, again. "You go very still when you are uncomfortable. You should watch that, it reveals you as a bad liar when your tells are so obvious."

Genji feels his shoulders stiffen, knows instantly where Genji would tell his brother to put his advice, back peddles toward wondering what _Lightning_ would think instead, and falls down, lost, somewhere between the two. He sulks, "Not everyone wants to be a great liar."

Hanzo snorts. "Yes they do."

"Did you give up on guessing?"

" _No_ ," Hanzo corrects him, prim and offended at the suggestion. "And it is hardly a guess at this point. If you are not an AI than you are a man." He throws the truth out like it is scraps from his deconstructed sandwich. "And since you are too small to be a man _inside_ a robot, you are one who has been made _into_ a robot. A full body prosthetic."

Hanzo leans heavily into the jail bars as if he is getting comfortable, his head lulls to the side, he lets out a heavy, even breath. His eyes stay on his loosely held sake cup. "A pitiful science project, I'm sure, or it would have been all over the news. Instead here you are, medical marvel, cutting down criminals and kidnapping crime lords. I had a good laugh, once I figured it out."

The cold, hollow space in Genji expands all at once. Until it no longer feels like an ache in guts he doesn't have but like emptiness of his body is pushing out against the frame of his cybernetic shell, threatening to decompress if not for layers of tightly woven carbon.

Hanzo sips his sake.

Genji tells himself that Hanzo is guessing. More arrows into the dark. But Hanzo had always been good at reading people and their situations. Always been good at everything, really.

Again, he wishes to escape, but he can't. 

So instead he curls forward onto his knees and reaches between the bars. He's been baited again, he knows it. He's always been the one to lose his temper first, and Hanzo'd always known how to make it happen. But this time Hanzo's guard isn't up. Genji's fingers curl tight in Hanzo's bound hair and yank hard, slamming the side of his brother's head into the bars. 

Hanzo curses, hisses, and tries to shift in Genji's grip but is held tight.

Genji vaguely registers the frequency of his cybernetics increasing, a high whirr that is just as indicative of his temperament as when blood had once pounded in his ears. "Well, you're on a good guessing streak, Hanzo. Now guess _why_ I live in secret, bringing criminals to justice."

" _Hah_ ," Hanzo barks out a rough laugh. He doesn't struggle as much as ply, wrapping a hand around Genji's wrist and twisting against the bars to find a position he can use to peel away. Genji slams his head into the iron again and Hanzo gives up with grimace and a sigh. "You hate my clan. That I always knew."

"But _why_."

Hanzo glares at him from the corner of his eye. Derision finally slips into his voice, "How the hell should I know?" He's given up on giving up; returns to trying to tug himself free by prying at the fingers in his hair. "I'm sure it matters more to you than to me. We have ruined many lives, I doubt your story is unique."

So Hanzo thinks he is some unknown avenger, out for the entire Shimada-gumi because his own family and body had been lost to drugs or weapons or violence. 

They had never discussed that side of the family much; the place where it broke away from being a business and became a predator that hunted the disadvantaged. Genji had spared it little _thought_ , prior to their father's death, and he'd always assumed Hanzo was equally ignorant. Now, with the man casually accepting blame for countless lives and no hint of an apology in sight, he wonders if this is just another way in which Hanzo only concerned himself over matters that directly wounded the clan.

Hanzo's understanding of his situation is wrong, but what it reveals shames their shared past.

A spike of anger heightens his senses as his cybernetics go on full alert. He can hear Hanzo's heartbeat quicken in turn as Genji lets go and wraps his working arm around his brother's neck instead. Hanzo's fine hair, disrupted by Genji's abuse, falls loose. It tickles across his CNT while he applies enough pressure to cut off Hanzo's breath. 

It isn't actually a viable attack; the sake bottle is within Hanzo's reach. Genji only has one hand. Hanzo could shatter the glass, dig it into Genji's arm, free himself. Or he might have the strength to slip free; his two arms are likely stronger than Genji's one. 

But the counter attacks don't come. The struggle is so small it doesn't even disturb the food scattered nearby. Genji is able to cut off his air, unopposed beyond Hanzo's fingers digging into his unmoving bicep, until he feels his brother weakening.

This isn't how it should happen.

" _Fuck you_ , Hanzo." Genji whispers, helpless fury permeating into his words for the first time in months. He relaxes his grip. Hanzo sucks in a thick gust of air.

How can he ever fight his brother to the death again if Hanzo never truly tries to win?

Even with the hold loosened, Hanzo doesn't try to pull away. Doesn't try to put space between them before Genji changes his mind. He leans back against the bars instead, looks forward at nothing. "Again." Hanzo breathes, and all of the smug superiority has drained out of his voice. His brother sounds old and miserable. "Why do you never finish it?"

Genji freezes again. Reminds himself that he should stop doing that; but what else can he do in the face of such a question?

He leans his head forward against the bars. The cowboy hat he'd forgotten about tips upward, threatens to fall. From this angle he can just make out the tired ridges of Hanzo's face; exhausted, disinterested, too uncaring to even be bored.

Genji remembers the question he had asked days ago. "If your family means so much to you, why did you never come after me? Honor demands you seek revenge."

"Feh." Hanzo's face twists like he wants to spit, but even drunk he is too proper for that. "Honor is meaningless." Somehow, even seeing his brother as a broken as he is, it's a surprise to hear those words from _Hanzo_. Genji's arm around Hanzo's neck loosens another fraction. 

"You are not as special as you think, cyborg."

"I have killed or incarcerated more members of your family than anyone else alive."

"Heh. That is important to you, is it? So many notches on your hilt." Hanzo shifts, leans his head back with eyes closed, almost as if he is getting comfortable. "It was not your strength that destroyed the Shimada-gumi. It was my weakness."

Hanzo tries to make it sounds like a meaningless fact, like this admission doesn't pain him. But Genji hears the faint shudder of breath behind the words, catches the way Hanzo's eyes tighten briefly, squeezing back an unspoken emotion.

He thinks he should be offended at Hanzo disregarding his years of efforts. But this…

_This_ had really been the goal all along, hadn't it? To take as much from Hanzo as had been taken from him. But where Genji had valued his self and his future, Hanzo had valued the family. Justice for a criminal empire had been a convenient justification, but what Genji had _sought_ was the knowledge that his brother's life was just as worthless and ruined as his own.

Hanzo's breathing evens, his eyes slide open. The look he gives the cyborg threatening his life is almost dismissive. "You may as well do it. Find your balls, little cyborg. This could be your last chance."

Genji considers it, and rolls a shuriken out of his wrist as he does. He presses a sharp point against Hanzo's neck. This had always been an option. That the truth would be they were irreconcilable. Their collective betrayal and heartbreak and anger too much to sustain within each other's vicinity. Death offered a certain resolution for both of them. Genji would no longer wonder what to do about his brother, the decision would be made. And Hanzo would no longer wish for an end to a life filled with ambitions Genji had ensured would fail. 

But he remembers McCree. Shot of tequila, suck on a lime wedge; talk about still being haunted by a man he hadn't seen in twenty years. Whose death he wasn't even responsible for.

And anyway.

Genji had decided he no longer wanted to kill his brother. He isn't sure he ever had. Isn't that why he had failed each opportunity?

_Find your balls_? Hanzo had literally burned them off eight years ago. What an asshole.

Genji is abruptly only exhausted. He shrinks down, his cybernetics calm to a quieter hum. All of his lights dim completely and he just… hangs on. 

When the strike never comes, when Genji never returns to cutting off Hanzo's air, Hanzo finally pulls away. He slips out from under Genji's lax limb and curls forward, until his face is in his hands. The dragon tattoos quiver. Genji wonders with no particular emotion if Hanzo is crying. He'd never seen that.

_This is what you wanted_.

He says nothing, doesn't move or look away. Waits until Hanzo shudders, rubs vigorously at his face, sits up and reaches back for his sake while deliberately keeping Genji at his back. He drinks straight from the bottle and when he speaks, his throat is tight. "Why are you still here, then?"

It's easier for Genji. His body doesn't get betrayed by emotion. His words come out clear and clipped no matter how raw he feels. "You are going to try to kill yourself again."

"Hah." Hanzo takes several more deep breaths, each one ripples up his back. " _Yes_. Why not? That is the plan." His words are coming out better, sharp and fluid. "Did you think I would stay here as your docile little informant for as long as it is convenient for you?"

You wanted this. 

The words repeat quietly inside his head. 

When Genji had seen no point to his life, revenge had gotten him through the day. He expected his brother would feel the same. But in the end, the person Hanzo most wanted revenge on was himself.

They had always seen things differently.

Slowly, Genji untangles himself from where he had leaned against the bars. As he sits up the cowboy hat falls and he picks it up, rubs his thumb against the brim. When he speaks he makes his voice sound convicted. "You can't kill yourself."

A few feet away, Hanzo snorts. "You cannot stop me forever. Not even with your nanobots."

McCree is going to be disappointed in him. 

At what point do you become such a shitty human being you should just embrace the machine? But Hanzo can't kill himself. 

"I won't let you."

Hanzo finally turns, wary and angry. 

He doesn't ask how Genji will stop him. He probably already has guessed. But Genji makes it clear anyway. "If you do, I'll go back to Japan. I'll finish off everyone who is left."

It's almost a relief to see Hanzo's face twist toward fury, anger rising in increments as his inebriated mind puts the pieces together. He slams against the cell wall, snarling down at Genji who rolls to his feet, slipping just out of Hanzo's reach. 

"Why?!" When he can't reach Genji he pounds his palm against the iron bars instead. There's a red bruise around his eyes and Genji guesses he had been crying after all. "What do you want from me?! How much suffering will satisfy you?!"

He didn't expect to reach a decision in this way, but now that he's made up his mind Genji finds his actions easier, smoother. Following a script is easy, even if he only just wrote it. 

His lights flicker back on, one by one. "I didn't bring you here to suffer, Hanzo." He puts the cowboy hat back on, gives it a cheeky tilt. Conveniently, he doesn't need to contort his face into a cool expression. Controlling his body is easy, when he thinks about it. He's a better liar than Hanzo gives him credit for. "But I'll make you if it keeps you alive."

Hanzo doesn't understand the answer and the confusion is obvious on his face. But he understands Genji's threat, and that's enough for now. He plants his forehead against the nearest iron bar and breathes heavily. He leans on the jail wall like he might otherwise tumble over. "Get out."

Genji doesn't move immediately, doesn't respond. And when Hanzo glances up to find him still there he attacks the cage again. " _ **Go!**_ " Furious as a trapped dragon. They both have that dangerous anger in them somewhere.

Genji tips his hat at Hanzo and leaves.

\-------------------

He holds himself straight, confident and cold, until the door to the cells closes behind him. Then he collapses back against it, curling down behind his knees. He disables his visor's optics and imagines it would be nice to be able to disappear under McCree's hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	9. Chapter 9

_He's taking you for a ride, cowboy_.

The words echo in Jesse's mind for the next few hours, rising, disruptive, from the back of his brain while he tries to focus on satellite footage out of South Korea. It's the sort of mind-numbing work that has to get done, that Blackwatch doesn't get to shove off on some pencil pushers because Reyes likes to keep the crew _lean_. The kind that is easy to get distracted from by unbidden memories of a shirtless crime boss pressing a cigarette between his lips.

_Wouldn't mind if he_ did.

Jesse squeezes his eyes tight, rubs at his face, and wonders if maybe he shouldn't hit the bar scene again. Just get enough excitement to take the edge off. How long had it been? Three months? He counts back in his head and grunts. More like seven. Hell. 

The first half of the year had been busy. There'd been the long op in Australia, where he got real familiar with just how bottoms up shit had gone down there. Then a string of operations moving up the west end of South America, infiltrating and breaking up a rising trend of illegal AI construction. Blackwatch wasn't a nine to five for anyone. There were months on the road, sleeping in vans or staying up all night on streets and in dive bars, sweet-talking nuggets of intel out of the locals. When he was younger he'd fit in his social outings alongside his work, and that went okay; came back with more than a few gems he'd found between the sheets, tipping his hat to Reyes with the smugness of a dumbass. 

But he's no spring chicken anymore, and it turns out a sympathetic ear is probably a better path to useful information than an alert dick. His last five years of intel ops haven't been nearly so risque.

Yet he'd almost taken Hanzo up on his offer. Not that the yakuza had made one exactly. But Hanzo hadn't pretended he wasn't deliberately lighting Jesse's fire, so Jesse'd quit acting like he couldn't feel the heat. He wants to ask Genji if he's real sure his brother had been a prude back in the day, because _boy howdy_ does the way Hanzo weaponizes his looks suggest otherwise. But somehow he doesn't want to know how Genji would take his friend being hit on by his estranged traitorous brother. Especially not while they were all treading such thin ice already.

Sending Genji off to deal with his drunk brother before Jesse could fall into the honeytrap was probably the right call. But hell if the _what ifs_ weren't hard to get past.

\-----------------

Jesse eventually finds his focus and loses several hours going back and forth with Pallas comparing spikes in criminal activity reports with potential underground pipelines. A couple of shipping yards end up likely suspects, but there is still more work to be done to suss out a seller. He has Pal transcribe and encode correspondence that will end up in the hand of a couple of SK contacts. One legit, one not. Both will take his money to do the preliminary ground work. 

He's debating moving onto the same monotonous work in China, which would be _way_ more of a pain in his keister and probably take the better part of a week before they had anything to show for it, when he notices he's been scratching incessantly at his scalp on account of it being hatless. He _had_ told Genji to bring it back after dinner, right?

He's pretty damn sure he had.

Huh. 

Jesse weighs the possibility that the brothers were having a good long chat against the possibility something had gone to shit and Genji had run off against the possibility Genji just decided he wanted to keep the hat.

He leans back in his spindly, too small office chair. Stretches and feels his back crack against the plastic ridge. "Hey Pallas?"

The AI has been with him all night, quiet except for when Jesse asks him direct questions. "Yes?"

"You'd tell me if anyone died in the cells, right?" Jesse is pretty sure he would but. Pallas was squirrely sometimes.

"Of course, Agent McCree."

"Good t'hear. Genji still down there?"

"No." There is a suspicious pause before Pallas decides to cough up more information, though his tone remains neutral and unconcerned. "He left about fifteen minutes into the meeting."

"Shit." Probably _not_ after quietly giving Hanzo his eats and leaving without conflict. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Tell you, you mean?"

"Yeah, that's what 'say something' means."

Jesse is getting tetchy which means the AI remains artificially unreadable. "You mean, why am I not invading Agent Genji's privacy for your peace of mind?"

"A good go-to-hell to you too," Jesse grumbles as he gets to his feet. There's no real heat to his voice but he can tell when he's being told off. "It's called looking out for your friends."

Pallas sighs. Angela this time. Had the AI always been this cheeky? Jesse definitely feels like he's getting cheekier. "Why are you so concerned?"

"Cause I told him to talk to me after dinner, hours ago, which probably means things went south and he's off sulking it off."

"Congratulations, Agent. You deduced exactly what happened utilizing your instincts and personal knowledge, and without resorting to using a black ops management AI to spy on his family conflicts."

Jesse scowls.

"Which would be extremely invasive."

Hell. "Alright."

"And generally dickish."

Shit. " _Alright_ , you made your point, Pal." Jesse throws his hands up, closes the door on the workroom harder than he needs to as he exits. Probably could've taken that more gracefully, but he'd burn off some steam looking for Genji and apologize later. Once the embarrassment of being caught overstepping stops burning him up.

\----------------

It takes a lot longer to locate the ninja than it does to cool off. 

Jesse's never known Genji to stray far from the base; the cyborg doesn't have the benefit of disappearing into a crowd or drinking it off at a bar. But Gibraltar's Watchpoint is huge and Genji can get to a lot of spots Jesse can't. Normally he'd ask Athena, but after the scolding Pallas gave him he opts to let his friend have his quiet while Jesse does the leg work.

After about an hour of wandering he spots a faint green smudge on a satellite dish, not much more than a shadow backlit by the sunset. It overlooks the western cliffside, making a mighty fine view that Jesse'd guess Genji isn't much in a state of mind to appreciate. 

He's at least thirty feet up and this time with no climbing gear or convenient handholds to make it easy on his slow cowboy ass. He stares up at the dish, close enough to the underside that he can't see Genji on top anymore, and finally calls him on the comm. 

"Howdy, partner."

There's a long delay and Jesse wonders if Genji is going to ignore the call. He leans against a concrete support and takes out a cigarillo. 

A moment later warm smoke is escaping his lips. He takes a heavy inhale and blows rings, watches them paint dark loops against the red-orange underbelly of overhead clouds. There's unusually little wind out here, near the bluffs, but the air is crisp enough to make the temperature perfect.

As he nears the end of his smoke he finally hears a soft click in his ear, then Genji's chagrinned voice. "You're _here_?"

"Ayup."

Silence persists long enough for Jesse to stub out the butt, and when Genji finally comes back he's turned quiet and uncertain. "Did you see him?"

So they're doing this. It's been a spell since Genji wanted to have a conversation without looking at him. Though, considering Jesse'd had to track him down, maybe 'wanted' wasn't real precise. "Your brother? Nah. Pallas says he ain't dead."

"Hah."

Jesse lifts his eyebrows, "That a bad thing?"

"No. He wants to kill himself." 

Genji has a trick where he sucks all the inflection out of his voice or amps up the tinny robotic reverb or something. Jesse's not sure _how_ he does it, but he knows it _means_ the cyborg is burying his emotions. He's doing it now.

"Well," Jesse decides he gets another cigarillo if they are going to have _this_ conversation. Maybe even two. There isn't really an upward number on how many smokes you're allowed in this scenario. "Can't say I'm real surprised by that. He talked to you about it?"

"I threatened to kill him. He didn't try to stop me."

"Aw, hell." It's a known fact at least a part of Genji's wanted to kill Hanzo for a while now. Or maybe just thought he should want it. Genji always clammed up too fierce for Jesse to nail that bit down exactly. But he doesn't think it means nothing that Hanzo's still kicking.

When Genji doesn't add anything else, Jesse continues. Just talking to keep his friend doing the same. "Guess he probably doesn't see himself as having much to live for."

"That was the idea," Genji's murmur comes back, hollow.

Jesse sips on the end of his cigarillo, searching and failing for what to say to _that_.

He knows the story, more or less. No doubt Genji's leaving out some of the details, but they fought over what kinda future Genji would have and Hanzo won; picking death for his brother over letting him out of the family.

That much made a kind of sense Jesse'd always understood. It wasn't like Deadlock was a group you just quit either. They weren't family but they were all in it for the long haul just the same, even if you signed on when you didn't know any better and didn't have any other options. But while there were plenty of guys in Deadlock he would've killed for, it was pretty arguable there was even one he would've died for. 

The yakuza, or at least the Shimada, apparently aren't like that. 

Genji'd expected his brother to take his side. And Jesse'd wager that Hanzo expected a brother that would never even think of another life. He doesn't know how the hell that ended up with Genji burned down to near nothing, but given that Hanzo is prouder'n a cock at sunrise and Genji has an angry streak a mile wide, he suspects they didn't talk it out.

Not that Genji doesn't have the right to kill his brother if that's what he wants. Jesse'd already decided to take his friend's lead and the fact Genji is still considering burying his past in a real literal manner is another sobering reminder of why the cowboy should keep his distance from the attractive crimelord.

He sighs, frustrated that the thought even keeps appearing on his mind.

Jesse looks up at the underside of the satellite dish; still no signs Genji has budged. "Why don't you come down here, pardner? You know cowboys and heights don't mix." 

When he's met only with silence still, Jesse feels it like a cold fist in the chest and that tightness works on up to his throat. He tries again, softer. He isn't too proud to plead. "C'mon, honey. Let me hold you."

The only immediate response is Jesse's own flood of embarrassment. Like he's gone and crossed an unspoken line. Sure, he's always there with an easy touch or loaner cowboy hat when Genji needs the support, but they don't put words on it. It happened and then stopped happening and the silence around the actions kept it simple. Now he's made it complicated. Now if Genji rejects his touch Jesse's gotta admit he really wanted to give it.

Jesse is fussing through his thoughts and rubbing out his cigarillo out on the concrete support when Genji lands in front of him. Quick as a whip and silent as a whisper; just a brief green streak near the top of his vision that falls into a perfectly still crouch as soon as it hits the ground. One hand pins the cowboy hat on his head.

Relief settles against his heartache immediately, and Jesse feels a smile dart across his face.

Genji tips his hat down across his visor as he stands, and when Jesse spreads his arms the cyborg slips forward like a shiver, burying slight and cool against the cowboy's warm chest. Jesse hauls him up -- Genji can't weigh much more than seventy pounds -- and feels Genji's arm curl around his neck. They finally fit together as the cyborg presses his face plate against his cowboy's neck and Jesse retrieves his hat just before it's knocked to the ground.

This is new. They'd never been _this_ close. This blatant. 

But Jesse'd be lying if he claimed doesn't feel just about perfect. Though he's a mite chagrined at how it comes at the expense of Genji's quiet misery.

Jesse replaces his hat on his own head and leans back against the wall behind him. Genji doesn't need any help staying up, not with an arm around Jesse's neck and knees hooked over his hips, so Jesse tightens his grip across Genji's back, pulling the corners of his serape up to wrap around him.

Like this it becomes obvious real quick that faint vibration he'd always noticed in Genji, especially when he gets anxious, is actually a full body thrum. His cybernetics pulsing with a hurried, quiet life that you can only really feel when right up on him. Jesse runs his palm over the pliable plate on Genji's spine and up toward the metal ridges of his shoulder blades. It feels like resting his palm on an idling engine.

"What're you thinking?" Jesse murmurs, finally breaking the silence.

Geniji responds more easily this time, though he sounds exhausted into apathy. "That you're a lot more comfy than the shitty bunks."

Jesse laughs, and Genji melts against the short jumps of his chest. "Thought you couldn't get muscle cramps. I got a permanent kink in my neck thanks to those things."

"I can't. There's _some_ perks." Genji's quiet voice is softening toward something drowsy, and Jesse wonders if he doesn't intend to sleep there. But instead the cyborg moves his hand to the back of Jesse's neck and curls his fingers into the muscle in a way that makes Jesse's breath stop. "You're just really warm."

It takes Jesse several thudding heartbeats to realize it's a massage and not something else. 

And then with a hot flush up his neck he wonders when the hell a massage delivered from a man literally _hanging off him_ stopped being _something else_.

Hell. 

The only thing that keeps the heat from spreading all the way up to his cheeks and down to his cock is the fact that there was no sly flirtation in Genji's voice. Jesse clings to that dreary tone to cool his blood and lets out a heavy sigh. Hormones are shoved aside with a mental note that he should definitely hit up the bar scene again, Jesus H. Christ.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, the touch ceases. Jesse's not sure if the moment passed or something else wandered into Genji's head. Or if he just got bored when Jesse didn't respond. 

He swallows, and fights his way back to the original conversation. 

"You, uh… You decided what you want to do about him?"

Genji seems to solidify against him. All that liquid muscle going to steel as Jesse brings up Hanzo again, and the cowboy isn't surprised that a moment later the ninja's falling away. He drops down to the ground without a sound, and Jesse keeps his hands on him, hoping if he doesn't let go, Genji won't force him to. 

When he's left with one big hand spread across the back of Genji's neck, and his friend still frozen under his touch, Jesse returns the earlier favor: thick and blunt fingertips dig into the CNT on either side of Genji's metal spine. The carbon muscle is more like iron than meat and Jesse can't press all that far in, but he seems to force a release of tension from the ninja, who finally unwinds. The rigid stance seems to slough off until Genji's posture is curved in defeat.

When he speaks he sounds weary, like it's the heaviest truth he's ever spit out. 

"I want him to want to live."

\--------------------

The body slides off of Genji's blade, settling on the carpeted office floor with a thud so deep it feels like it should echo in the cavernous space. Genji's mouth is hidden by a silver face guard but Hanzo can make out his brother's eyes; blown out by power or fear or both. Hanzo recalls his own first assassination. He remembers Watanabe-san reaching for his shoulder and saying….

"Well done," Hanzo clasps his younger brother on the back of his neck, feels a thrumming tension running up his spine. Fifteen had seemed like the obvious age to begin working for the family when it had been him, but now that it's Genji's turn he wonders if this couldn't have been delayed a bit longer. 

No matter, it's done now. "You reached his heart, he didn't suffer."

"Haah," Genji wipes his blade clean and runs a shaking hand through his short black spikes. "Yeah. I did it."

At the entrance to the room, a hundred miles away, Hanzo hears the gentle click of a lock.

Genji hears it too, they both freeze and focus their attention on the polished wooden door.

They race. Hanzo is faster, Genji trails behind him like an awkward hare, bounding over future then stumbling as his nerves rock him. It doesn't matter, Hanzo is more than fast enough. He catches her before she leaves the hallway. She's bag-eyed and overworn from late nights with her former employer. He hair bun is sagging, and her clothing askew from Hanzo knocking her to the ground, turning her over. She's babbling so hard she barely breathes, spilling apologizes and promises Hanzo isn't interested in. He slips the tip of his ninjatō between her flapping lips. "Silence!"

She quiets, save for a low keen that pierces through her throat on every exhale.

"Wait! Brother!" Genji has caught up, he curls his fingers into the fabric of Hanzo's sleeve like they were still children. 

Hanzo remembers this. He turns to tell Genji they can't afford to spare her, it only causes trouble. But Genji just smiles up at him, grin cheeky and wicked.

"I'll take care of it."

He spills her guts.

One swift stab into her stomach; a horizontal cut under the navel, hooking down at the end. Then a vertical slash just as deep as the first, slicing through intestines. A confused stink of blood, shit, and partially digested food hits them.

This wasn't right. 

Hanzo pulls away from his brother. Confused, furious. He falls and realizes he'd forgotten to put on his prosthetics. His heart hammers in his chest, blood in his ears drowning out the dying woman's screams and Genji's words to her. 

This isn't how it went.

Hanzo finds his bow. Of course, he had brought his bow with him, he never goes anywhere without it. He nocks the arrow, draws the string. The angle is awkward from the ground but he won't miss. He knows how it goes. How to correct this. 

"Dragon!"

He feels it rise out of him like a cold gale, blue fire running up his arms at his call. He loves this feeling. For a moment, he and the dragon share space. Humanity burns off into smoke. Dragons feed on humans like cattle.

"Consume my brother!"

Hanzo's eyes snap open to dark shapes and a blue, unfocused glow. His chest is heavy and he can't breathe; for a delirious moment he is certain he _hasn't_ been breathing and is seconds away from suffocating. _This isn't right this isn't right this isn't right_ , repeats as a furious mantra in his mind, empowering him to claw away at the last clinging restraints of the dream.

None of that had been right. The woman had lived, by Genji's plea and Hanzo's grudging concession to his brother's wishes. "She won't cause any problems, right? There's nothing you can do, okay?" And Aika Terada had nodded, agreed to anything, been left sobbing into her hands as the brothers fled.

A year later, when a stalled investigation into the death of Terada-san's employer, Junko Fuwa, turned up a lead in the form of a witness willing to talk, Hanzo had taken responsibility for the undefendable choice in front of his father and the elders. Genji had been fifteen, it was expected that he be soft. It had been Hanzo's duty to be strong, and he had failed.

Two years after that, once a pair of low-ranked siblings had been asked to confess for the Shimada-gumi's sake in exchange for financial reparations to their family, a lengthy legal battle was concluded. Hanzo waited for Tareda-san to leave the country on vacation and completed the work he should have done three years prior. 

When the incident came up in passing, it had been one of the few times Hanzo could recall Genji apologizing with any sincerity in his voice. "Sorry. You should've sent me to do it." When Hanzo had only shrugged, his brother continued, "Maa. I guess that's the life. All this money, but we can't afford mercy."

There were other details of course. Hanzo had killed Genji at twenty-five, not fifteen. He hadn't needed prosthetics at the time. And Genji had never worn that ridiculous metal face guard. 

As Hanzo catalogues inconsistencies the tightness in his chest fades, his breathing evens out, and he can finally anchor himself in time and space again.

The cell, Blackwatch, night, an uncomfortable stone floor; he hadn't even made it to his cot. He'd been drinking.

The blue glow he can't explain, and other memories surface as he searches for an answer. Lightning the omnic. No, _cyborg_ now. Admitting his quest for revenge against the Shimada-gumi, then confusing it by refusing to kill Hanzo even when he all but begged. Deciding instead that Hanzo had to _live_ through his failures instead of dying in apology of them.

Each memory sinks into him without a ripple. He feels nothing but a clinging shortness of breath and the residual scratchy eyes from when he had, apparently, cried. What the hell in his cell was glowing so eerily.

Following an old echo of habit, he lifts his arms.

The glow collects them around like a fog, thicker around his tattoos, encircling him with an energy that crackles as he moves within it.

"No…"

He does not believe it, and runs down the list of all possible ways his brain might be misleading him. He rubs sleep from his eyes and then blinks a dozen times. He indexes his thoughts and senses until he is certain he is not dreaming. He gets to his feet and finds he can stand with little difficulty and that much of the alcohol has left his system, so a hallucination is also unlikely.

The only other possibility he can think of is that his food had been poisoned or the nanobots in his system are doing… _something_. But neither of those felt true to him, not when the cool scales of the dragons rub against his arms, even as their form stays as little more than a dim blue cloud.

"Why." He speaks to them, voice chapped down to a whisper. "Why do you return to me now?"

The dragons do not answer. They don't _speak_ , only act. Eight years ago they acted by abandoning him, proving their resentment for having been turned on their brother. Now they have returned, albeit weakened considerably. He can feel them settling in the broken places inside of him like cool water running through cracks. It fixes nothing but it sooths, and Hanzo's breath stutters through his throat as he fights down the impulse to cry again.

"Why now?"

He gives up on standing, returns to hands and knees while his head spins and his chest locks up in slow, shaking heaves.

Was it to help him escape? Help him take revenge on the cyborg? He had felt not a whisper from them except for the night five years ago that he had tried to end his own life, and even then they had not submitted to his will.

Whatever the reason, he can't afford to waste this opportunity. He has no more chances left.

\--------------

When Jesse arrives in the cells in the morning, he expects he'll find a drawn out and hung over Hanzo. He's overdone it on alcohol and emotions more than once in his time and has something like sympathy for what _that_ feels like, even if a big part of him always believes Hanzo's brought his unfortunate consequences on himself.

So he's more than a little surprised when he passes by the first bars of Hanzo's cell to find him the dressed to the nines in the fancy Japanese attire Jesse and Genji'd picked out and sitting on his knees, eyes closed; apparently not asleep, but meditating.

Whatever might've gone down last night, there's no signs of it now. Hanzo's cell is as put together as it's ever been, with the supplies Jesse's been providing in a neat line along the back wall, out of reach as if Hanzo worries someone'll try to knick his shit through the bars.

Jesse'd ordered several outfits on Genji's advice, and shoved them, along with the sandwich, at the ninja last night. The outfit Hanzo chose to start with is a dark blue with a simple cloud pattern printed on it that had reminded Jesse of the yakuza boss's tattoos. He probably shouldn't feel a little thrill at actually seeing how fine the man made the clothes look, but despite how much Jesse hadn't _minded_ Hanzo spending the last week shirtless, seeing him as looking as refined as lord even locked in the small cell is certainly enough to make a fella turn twice. 

"Well, huh. Gotta admit, Shimada-san, didn't expect to find you already risin' and shinin'." He approaches the cell with his usual camaraderie, leaning against the bars with a bowl in each hand.

At his voice, Hanzo focuses on him, revealing irritated red eyes as the only real sign of the previous night's drinking. He's quick to regard Jesse with a narrow eyed suspicion, then nods in the direction of one of the cell's cameras. "Did you watch the spectacle?"

Jesse hadn't even considered it, though now that Hanzo's brought it up he's almost tempted. Probably Pallas would tell him to butt out again. "Nah, but I talked to Lightning last night."

Hanzo's gaze drops, tight frustration (or maybe that's even embarrassment) crosses his face. But the wayward emotions are corralled and locked away quick, and when Hanzo looks up his expressions are schooled and his words chill. "Well then. What happens now?"

"Er." That wasn't a question he was expecting, but Jesse lifts his shoulder casually. If Hanzo wants to re-evaluate, Jesse can use that. "Well, let's talk about that. You wanna eat?"

The last few days Hanzo'd dropped some of his guard, talking comfortably with Jesse like he knew what to expect, even if they weren't gonna be friends. Now his walls are all back up and Jesse has to endure a long searing gaze before Hanzo gets to his feet and approaches the bars.

Jesse twists one of the bowls between the bars and Hanzo accepts it, frowning down at the soft yellow pillow marked with a ketchup sunrise. "...Is this omurice?"

"Yep." Jesse grins. It was a bit squished to fit in the bowl but he was still pretty pleased with how it came out. "Thought I'd give you a break from my usual fair."

Hanzo takes up the spoon tucked into the bowl and cuts off a careful segment. "Where did you learn to make this?"

Jesse snorts. "From a recipe, compadre."

"Hmm. Not bad," Hanzo concludes, after popping the bite in his mouth and slow chewing through it. 'Not bad' is the only compliment he ever offers. Maybe Jesse should get Roadie to teach him to bake.

"Well, glad it ain't bad." Jesse huffs out a sigh as he lowers himself to the floor, wondering why he hasn't gotten it so they can eat at a table like civilized folks yet. 

Jesse'd spent most of the night up and not looking forward to this conversation, but at least now that it's happening he more or less knows what he wants to chat about. "Anyway, you want to give me the rundown of what went on last night?"

Once again, Hanzo makes no effort to hide his distrust. But after a moment the yakuza settles down across from the cowboy, like he usually does if Jesse's willing to be the one to extend a patient olive branch. "I thought your cyborg friend had told you?"

Jesse feels his eyebrows lift near up to his hat, then slip back down as he focuses on his omurice; this one decorated with tabasco. "He mentioned some things, but I'm pretty sure not all of em. Like the part where you decided he's a cyborg now."

"That was inevitable." Hanzo gestures with his spoon like flicking away an irritating fly. "I might have guessed earlier, but it's a surprise Overwatch would hide such startling medical developments."

"Ain't exactly _hidden_." Jesse mumbles around his rice, making Hanzo wrinkle his nose. "Just not a lot of guys in a position to need so many cybernetics and have someone willing to foot the bill."

"Hm. That level of technology has been around at least seven years." Hanzo's voice is quiet and thoughtful. Despite his suspicion he's been calm the whole way through, and Jesse can't help but wonder how much of that was due to having given up on his life. "I would've expected it to have flooded the market by now. As personal enhancements for the rich, and as weapons for the United States at _least_."

Jesse chuckles. "I know the doc doing the work. Same one who came up with the magic behind that biotic tech."

"Angela Ziegler."

He nods. "She's keeping a tight hold on the tech. Says she doesn't want the next war to be between men who've given up their bodies to become killing machines. She and Morrison have a spat about it every few months."

Hanzo hums and cuts his omurice into smaller pieces, rarely actually stopping to eat any of it. "What of all those whose lives could be saved?"

Jesse shrugs. They're treading into territory he doesn't know. He puts men in their graves, 'Mercy' pulls them out. "All I can tell ya is I'm sure she thinks about it long and hard all the damn time. But she's the miracle doctor, and someone's gotta make the big decisions."

"You are fond of her." Hanzo says it with casual conviction, leaving Jesse no room to duck away.

So he shrugs, instead. Flashes the yakuza a shy grin. "Caught me. We more or less grew up 'round this place. Two kids who didn't know up from down acting real hard like we belonged here."

Hanzo nods but doesn't continue the conversation. Another piece of omurice finally makes it into his mouth. They eat in silence until Jesse prompts him again for his angle on the night before, and Hanzo agrees to tell it without further argument.

His account is more detailed than Genji's but not by much. He had been drinking, he angered the cyborg deliberately, when it threatened to kill him Hanzo didn't resist. Jesse doesn't manage to bury his shock when Hanzo tells him "Lightning" had ensured Hanzo wouldn't kill himself by swearing he'd take out the rest of the Shimada, but Hanzo is busy playing with his food instead of eating it and misses Jesse's surprise. 

Hanzo doesn't have a reason to lie, for one. He's sure the crime lord believes Jesse doesn't give a handful of shit if every last member of the Shimada-gumi was cut down, and he'd be close to accurate on that. But he's also pretty sure the threat is a bluff. Despite Genji acting like he might still off his brother at the wrong word, Jesse's been willing to bet for a while that the ninja's family murdering days were done.

When the story is over and Jesse has polished off the last of his own breakfast, he sighs and leans his shoulder up against the bars. "You two really come together like oil and water."

"We _have_ destroyed each other's lives." Hanzo doesn't put any heat into the words, just a dull sarcasm. 

"Boy." Jesse drums his cybernetic fingers on his knee. "Look, I never knew either of you back in your good ol' days. But Lightning's life ain't actually too bad anymore. Not sure if you've noticed." Hanzo frowns at him and Jesse gestures at the barely half eaten food. "You gonna actually eat that?"

Hanzo hands him the bowl. "What is your point?"

Jesse fishes through his jean pockets; hard to do when you're sitting. "I'm saying losing as much as you have doesn't mean it's gotta be the end for you too. -- here we go." His fat fingers land on the tiny bottle of tabasco he keeps around for emergencies. He unscrews the cap and shakes it out over what's left of Hanzo's breakfast.

The yakuza boss is silent a long time, and Jesse knows he's being judged, so he flashes Shimada-san a grin before digging into the picked over omurice.

For once Hanzo doesn't respond to the grin, doesn't appear to be paying attention at all. He's staring at some empty space between two bars. When Jesse raps gently on the ground between them and leans in, Hanzo starts he's been snuck up on. "You with me there, hoss?"

Hanzo grimaces, probably uncomfortable Jesse'd caught him spacing out. In the last week, even when Hanzo'd been drinking, Jesse can't recall ever seeing Hanzo get lost inside like that. "On the day I broke his arm, the cyborg said he thought of this as my _second chance_." Hanzo's mouth twists around the words like they burn him coming out. "And last night…" He seems inclined to leave it there, but when Jesse doesn't come in to pick up the thread Hanzo spits the rest out as well. "Last night it was "I'm not trying to make you suffer", or something like that."

Jesse's got to fight to keep it casual. Can't let on that he's hanging off Hanzo's every word and this conversation is starting to feel like he's walking a tightrope in his boots and spurs. He'd turned it over in his head for hours last night, but it wasn't his place to reveal Genji to his brother. And as long as neither of em died while they weren't considering the obvious, Genji could afford to take a bit longer to find his courage.

So he only says. "Well, that sounds about right."

" _How_?" Hanzo hisses, for the first time his voice hardening in frustration. It's almost a relief, Jesse isn't sure he likes the emotionally empty Hanzo. " _Nothing_ about that is believable!"

Jesse can guess but he plays dumb anyway, lifting his eyebrows at Hanzo between bites. "How ya figure?"

The withering glare he gets implies Hanzo doesn't buy it, but it gets him to go on anyway. "What motive would you have to 'offer' me this 'second chance'? And even if you had one, you cannot be thick enough to believe I would ever take it from _Overwatch_. From _him_."

The bowl is empty, Jesse sets it down. Careful, cowboy. "Yanno, I woulda bought that a few years ago. But here's the thing. Say we ain't full of it. A guy who hated you more than anything decides to give you a second shot. If that's possible for him, why wouldn't it be for you?"

Hanzo stares at him for a long moment, with a sour face like he's trying to digest words made of stone. "Everything about that is asinine."

Jesse lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "And why's that?"

"Where to start?" Hanzo clucks his tongue. "How about the fact that he is threatening to murder my family if I don't yield to his wishes?"

"Ergh." To hell with it. "He's bluffin'." 

It's not the response Hanzo'd been expecting, and for a moment his sleek eyebrows are locked high on that refined brow. Jesse can't blame him; he'd been careful not to undermine 'Lightning' this whole while. 

" _Really_." The single word from Hanzo is dry as sun-baked bone.

"Lightning ain't got much of a soft touch. But I'd eat my hat if he went through with it." Hanzo's eyes have narrowed again, like he's searching out the lie. "Revenge eats at you. And Lightning didn't have much left to be ate."

"You believe he has lost his taste for it..?" Hanzo forms the words like he's speaking another language. 

"Comparde, I know he has."

Hanzo's frowns, and Jesse can tell he's mulling it over. The yakuza's attention shifts away again, silently lost somewhere to Jesse's left, and Jesse leaves him there. His own hands feel idle and he cracks each knuckle in slow turn until Hanzo speaks. "Even if I were to believe you, that does not explain why _me_."

Jesse shrugs. He doesn't have a clever answer for that one. Why him, indeed. It's almost like Hanzo's someone real important to Lightning. But that gets too close to the truth. "Sounds like something you should ask him about."

A breath heaves out of Hanzo that Jesse suspects is meant to sound irritated, but there's a shiver in it that betrays unrest, and after closing his eyes for a long beat, he gets to his feet. "I'm no longer contributing to your efforts against the Kokan-kai."

Jesse isn't surprised to hear it. Hanzo'd been pushed pretty far the night before and he's the type to close up shop real fast. Still, he tries to sound put out as he hauls himself to his feet. "Aw, I got an op on that coming up and it'd be mighty nice to have your help."

"Isn't that a pity." Hanzo murmurs with empty conviction. He turns to retrieve his teapot and fill it from the sink.

"Too bad. Guess I'll manage to make do." 

Jesse watches Hanzo move away, and drums his fingers across his belt. According to the deal, that means Hanzo stays locked up again while his brain turns to mush. Probably, miserable as he is, that sounds like a bright idea. Jesse'd certainly had his moments of holing up away from the world and wishing the world would politely butt out.

But he doesn't like it on this end. Never did, apparently, given his tendency to track Genji down at all hours. The idea of abiding his own rules and leaving Genji's brother in here until he folded to Jesse's pretty meaningless demands sits worse with him by the minute.

Is it because he's Genji's brother, because he's a damn sight, or was Jesse just actually getting soft on him? Hard to say, really. Suppose it doesn't much matter. 

Jesse sighs and scratches at the line of his beard; Palls isn't gonna like it. 

Tapping his metal fingers against the bars of the cell calls Hanzo's attention back to him. "You ready to head out?"

"I told you," Hanzo frowns, all his sharp features angling toward incredulous. "I'm no longer working for you."

"I heard you." Jesse knocks more sharply against the jail. "Open up."

The cell door doesn't budge, and for the first time all morning Hanzo's amused smirk makes an appearance, though there's a softness around the edges of it that Jesse doesn't get to see much. "It seems your AI remembers our deal, even if you do not."

"Naw. If you're reneging on the deal, so am I. Open up, Pal, I ain't asking this time."

Hanzo's eyes widen, and after a long, grudging moment the cell door slides open. 

Jesse grins, feeling a little embarrassingly like doing the right thing by Hanzo'd improved his own day as well. He really _oughta_ have a lot more reservations about this call, but the disgruntled surprise on Hanzo's face says his instincts are leading him right on this one. And Hanzo's bow'd come in today. That'd probably cheer him up. "So, you coming or what?"

Jesse's feeling pretty smug about the confused carousel of emotions flickering across Hanzo's face, right up until he settles on _cranky_ and clips out a chilly "No", glaring like Jesse'd insulted his dead brother. 

It kicks the wind right out of him. Jesse feels his smile collapse, turn inward toward confusion "Hell, Shimada-san. You can't tell me you want to stay in there now."

"I can tell you I won't be plied." Hanzo gives him a dismissive wave, like shooing off a servant, before going back about his business with one of the coldest shoulders Jesse's ever felt. The kettle lands with a gentle tink on the burner. "Good day, McCree-kun."

Jesse stays locked as he is, tempted to argue, knowing it'd do no good. If he forces Hanzo out all he's doing is putting the cage on wheels. But his temporary mood drops like he's just been shot down from a mile high. 

It takes him a second to roll up his disappointment and exhale it out his nose in a warm huff. "Alright, but you got the keys now, Shimada."

Hanzo says nothing.

Jesse leaves feeling like he needs a smoke, and probably a shot or two.

\----------------

The cell door remains open. 

Hanzo does not approach it.

He patiently waits on his tea, and when it is ready relies on the familiar taste to sooth him while he turns over the disquieting last twenty-four hours.

In a way, he might have preferred to go without the cowboy's 'helpful' interpretation of the cyborg's mysterious actions. Lightning was mad, incoherent, fueled only on revenge, or broken by whatever he had experienced. These were all preferable to the cowboy's implicit suggestion that the enemy who had torn down his family now _pitied_ him, and this was all some misguided attempt to… Hanzo can't guess, exactly. Achieve redemption? Inner peace? Is he to believe he is some final step in a mass murderer's recovery from a years long vengeance binge?

Everything about it turns his gut. 

He sips his tea.

The cyborg _should_ want revenge, that was only natural. The Shimada-gumi had brought misery on countless lives, as any large and selfish organization always would. Hanzo had long ago accepted that despite what children's stories might claim, he did not owe the world at large anything. There were limited resources in an uncaring universe, and he would hoard all he could for those lives most important to him. 

As a result, the family also collected bitter enemies nearly as well as it collected wealth. Lightning was one of many, but also, Hanzo must grudgingly admit, the most capable.

Hanzo should also want revenge. 

And he does, but it is a distant urge. It feels like laying the blame of his own failures on the most convenient target. If his father was alive, the cyborg would have been dealt with, the family would still be thriving. Blaming Lightning, even blaming Overwatch, is childish. He would tell his family they were the ones to hate, but he has always known there was never any path forward that wasn't littered with powerful opponents. It had been his responsibility to guide them through that turbulence, and he had failed.

The first mistake had been killing his brother, that had come barely three months after his father's death.

If he had done anything right since then, it was hard to identify now.

The truth, Hanzo observes with a chill bitterness that doesn't touch his expression, is that the second chance the cyborg and the cowboy keep going on about is actually being given to the Shimada-gumi. It is for the best that they finally be free of his inept rule.

He pours another cup of tea. This one he only holds between the fingers of both hands, staring down at it and ignoring the slow tightening of his own breaths.

Perhaps Watanabe-kun would step up to take his place. That would be his choice, if he were to name an heir now.

Then again, he would probably be wrong in that as well.

He closes his eyes against a sting, and swallows to fight a lump in his throat.

It is close to an hour of mourning the loss of his family before he drags himself out of the unhelpful spiral of his own self pity with half-hearted reminders that if he cannot die, he also must not give up. Death is acceptable, but being broken is not. 

Hanzo's focus snaps back to his body, and a shudder runs up his spine, like all of his nerves coming alive again. He inhales until his chest aches, then gets to his feet.

The door is still open.

He scowls at it and moves onto his exercise. The door will close once his scheduled break was over. He will resist the taunt until then.

Hanzo starts with stretches and then moves into a quickly escalating routine until he is sweating into his underclothes and air is forced out of him in tight, scalding gusts. When his muscles are threatening to rebel and his stomach is offering to return his breakfast, Hanzo showers and settles into the corner to read.

He has to read each article twice, eventually murmuring the words aloud, as for some reason the contents refuse to stick in his head.

When four hours rolls around he stares at the opened jail cell, waiting for it to slide close and conclude this ridiculous exercise.

And when four hours and one minute comes and goes he feels a furious cold clench in his stomach that leaves him nauseous. 

It's ridiculous, and he knows it. But somehow the cowboy had checkmated him in a game where Hanzo doesn't even know the win conditions. If he refuses to leave the cell, who gets the point? What did the cowboy really want from him and how does Hanzo make sure he never gets it? The man had been disappointed when Hanzo did not accept his generous offer to allow him illusive moments of freedom despite Hanzo refusing to continue their deal. 

So will he be further disappointed if Hanzo never leaves? 

At what point does that turn from being a winning move into Hanzo self-flagellating to no purpose but a demand for attention he does not want?

Minutes tick by and the door stays open. 

At four and a half hours after the cowboy left, Hanzo gathers himself up and steps outside.

\-------------

Hanzo finds that some doors are open to him, and others are not. What he is permitted to explore amounts to the barracks, the kitchen, the bathroom, and a rec room. Each room is neat, sparse, and surprisingly large. Judging by the barracks there are only three members of Blackwatch sleeping here, but the space is made to allow to hold at least a dozen.

In the kitchen he finds a series of photographs, most of the members are not familiar to him, but he recognizes the original Overwatch strike team, and a younger Jesse McCree. Apparently the man accumulates cowboy paraphernalia along with years.

He also discovers the cowboy's stash of sake and cigarettes. He leaves the sake but tucks a fresh pack into his pocket.

In the bathroom he stops to observe himself a mirror of decent size for the first time in a week. The kimono the cowboy had supplied was of middling quality; it would not survive many washes but looked decent enough for now. His eyes are red and he suspects he is losing weight. At least he has managed to keep his beard even with a shitty razor and a hand mirror.

The exploration is brief, but he runs into no one, leaving him with only the courtyard left.

He stops before opening the door and places his hand on it. It is slightly cooler than the others. It's tempting to turn back, but that would be quite the act of cowardice. Best to adapt to facing his captors again as quickly as possible.

The day outside is chilly, and Hanzo is glad to be fully clothed again. Despite the temperature, the sun is high enough that the courtyard is well lit in a way Hanzo hadn't been able to see while spending the mornings here. It illuminates the track where the cowboy shouts brisk, militant commands at Roadhog and a tall, wiry young man with a peg leg. 

Lightning paces high up on the ridge of the walls. He is the first to notice Hanzo's entrance and turns to stare down at him with a flare of green light; McCree notices next and lifts his hat in greeting. Though Hanzo briefly glares up at the cyborg, it's the cowboy he turns to, and just in time to catch that now-familiar flash of a wide grin cracking across muddy features. The cowboy threatens his pupils with twice as much running if they slow down in the next half hour, then peels away from his duties. 

Hanzo waits, forcing the cowboy to come to him. The satisfaction of this is dulled somewhat by how much the American doesn't appear to mind.

In fact, he sounds delighted. "See you decided to join us." 

"I found room in my schedule," Hanzo responds with a dry humor he knows the cowboy will appreciate more than it is really worth. 

As expected, there goes the smile again. Hanzo wonders how the American can be so unfailing in his displays of unearned good cheer. It cannot possibly all be genuine, but there is a comforting sameness that Hanzo finds himself adapting to.

"Well, I'm mighty glad you did. Got a surprise for ya, Shimada-san," the cowboy tells him, sweeping one large arm in the direction of the courtyard's small shed.

Hanzo regards him with a stiff uncertainty until the cowboy's cheerful facade cracks, and he finally looks heavenward like playing his role around Hanzo requires a god's strength. As it should. 

"C'mon, I know you're the suspicious sort but I don't exactly need to be sneaky to get you where I want you round here. You'll like it, I promise." Hanzo feels no particular reassurance, but when McCree shakes his meaty paw toward the shed once again, Hanzo follows his prompt wordlessly.

Hanzo has not bothered with the shed since he arrived, other than to briefly peruse its offerings of old, random, and often broken exercise or game equipment. The cowboy used the weights and climbing gear regularly, and had once jokingly offered to bring out the bokuto before Hanzo had suggested he not offer to challenge his prisoners at sports in which said prisoners could handily kill him.

Now he opens the shed and finds, waiting directly in front of the door and slightly apart from the mess, a tall and narrow package.

"Ah." Hanzo murmurs, reaching for it. "I forgot." 

The bow, McCree had told him two days before, was scheduled to arrive 'soon'. Because Hanzo's order had been specific, it had taken longer than the other supplies, and in the wake of everything else it had slipped his mind. Now he pulls the unopened package toward him while some promising discomfort tightens his gut. 

Hanzo addresses the cowboy leaning against the outside of the shed. "You haven't opened it."

"Nah, figured it should stay wrapped up until you were ready for it." McCree offers him a pocket knife.

Hanzo slices through each layer of tape and unfolds the box onto the grass, exposing a hard plastic case that he unclasps.

It isn't Storm Bow. That, he recalls with a sorrowful ache, he will probably never see again, and is perhaps best forgotten. But it is an excellent recurve bow from a respected manufacturer. Not custom, but not _cheap_.

He strings the bow and runs his fingers down the pleasing lines of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the cowboy watching him with a smile. When Hanzo frowns at him and inquires about arrows, he's shown a bin full of recently produced but dull arrowheads. Pressing a button on them yields a blue light that solidifies into an arrow shaft of pre-defined length and weight. Hanzo lifts his eyebrows. "Vishkar is getting into everything."

For the next hour, Hanzo is uninterrupted as he adapts to the bow, firing arrow after arrow into one of three targets. McCree returns to coaching Roadhog and his friend, and the cyborg sits on the rim of the high wall, unreserved in his observations. For once, the cyborg's presence does not bother him. Meditation has always been a struggle, but with a bow in hand he can detach from his thoughts with ease.

His aim is poor. The bullseye even on stationary targets often evades him. Such is the price of using with a new bow and new arrows, and a week away from the range.

It should frustrate him, but this is the first challenge he's had since his capture with a clear and obvious solution. Put in more time and he would do better. It isn't as if his schedule is overloaded.

When he runs out of arrowheads, he stops. The cowboy's eyes had been on and off of him for his entire session, and he expects McCree to take the opportunity to close distance once again. But it is the cyborg who drops down off the wall and approaches while Hanzo gathers up arrows. 

A stiffness runs up his spine and straightens his shoulders. That the cyborg lifts one hand in a gesture of calm greeting does little to help him relax. "Want help?"

Hanzo scowls. "No." This ploy is always irritating; why do people he doesn't like try to trap him into conversation with civilities?

"Eesh, fine." The cyborg leans on one of the targets, his uninjured arm folded on top while he watches Hanzo. "Pull them all out yourself, then."

Hanzo picks a target and yanks each arrow out in turn and deposits them tip down into a bucket. "Why are you here?" He doesn't look up, and his tone remains unwelcoming.

No response comes immediately, and Hanzo succumbs to the urge to glance the cyborg's way. When he finally gets an answer, Lightning's words are careful. "How much do you even remember of last night?"

Hanzo clucks his tongue. "All of it."

A teasing note enters the cyborg's voice, "Really? You were pretty drunk."

What gall. "I have been 'pretty drunk' pretty often," Hanzo responds, derisive. "Everything is a skill."

A quiet chuckle from the cyborg. "Mm~m. I guess you are the kind of guy who'd want to be the _best_ at being trashed."

Hanzo pauses with his hand an arrow, forces a quiet and even breath, and yanks it free. " _Why._ Are you here?"

Again, despite the carefree tone, the cyborg stares at him a beat without response. "Because…" 

And when nothing follows on the heels of that one word, Hanzo locks his gaze with the cyborg until it continues. 

This time when Lightning laughs it's a narrow, hesitant sound. Somehow familiar. It means Hanzo's caught him in a lie. "You're never going to get any good with that thing against stationary targets."

Hanzo glances away and quells the nagging nostalgia. "You're volunteering?"

"I already did, right?" The cyborg has freed one arrow and spins it between his fingers like a pen. 

During negotiations; it had been a joke, or so Hanzo assumed. "You're injured."

A liquid shrug rolls of one cybernetic shoulder. "You've been missing a lot."

"This is not my bow." Hanzo scowls, more at the defensiveness in his own voice than at the cyborg for stating the obvious.

"See?" The cyborg stretches past the target he still leans on and tosses his arrow into Hanzo's bucket. "We're both handicapped."

Hanzo considers it as he retrieves the last board full of arrows.

Sparring with the cyborg. The idea had been appealing before. The cowboy, Hanzo is sure, can't offer him an interesting fight. But Lightning he had fought twice before and they make good combatants, even if Hanzo has never won. 

Yet now the offer seems too much like an olive branch. The cyborg has effectively ended his life but still insists on seeing him daily. But unlike McCree, who always seemed to have an available topic of discussion or could just keep Hanzo's company in silence, the cyborg could not avoid a conflict for more than ten minutes. So _we may as well do what we do best_ seems to be the idea.

But really. 

Why not?

Hanzo deposits the final arrow into the bucket and turns his attention back to the cyborg. "And the nanobots?"

"I asked Pallas not to interrupt."

Hanzo lifts his eyebrows. "Though I could kill you?"

"Nah, not with those arrows." The easy tone is back in the cyborg's voice and he rounds the target. "They're specially designed to have low impact, even _if_ you manage to hit me, it won't break the CNT."

"Hm." Hanzo believes him. "Very well."

" _Finally_ ," Lightning responds with faux-cheer. "Just watching you shoot was boring as hell."

\-------------------

It is not a sparring match as much as it is target practice. Hanzo tries, once, to entice the cyborg closer, and Lightning laughs from thirty meters away and crows that he doesn't need to close distance on someone who isn't a threat. 

Hanzo hits him five times, the arrow shattering into splinters of blue light on impact, before the cyborg retrieves a wooden sword from the shed to defend himself with. After that not a single arrow lands. Anything that gets close is scattered left and right by precise flicks of the bokuto.

It's a frustrating exercise to say the least, but of the type that increases Hanzo's focus, instead of his anger. He does not need to best the cyborg here and now. His dragons have returned to him, and they will be the key to any victory he achieves. This quiet reminder keeps his blood cool, until he does not hear the cyborg's taunts, only traces Lightning's impossibly swift moments with his eyes. 

He does not know why the dragons have returned or how to make them once again strong enough to consume all his enemies. But focus, effort, and a still heart had always been the foundation of his training, and with no other ideas, he falls back on that.

So Hanzo fires arrows until the bucket is empty, then follows the cyborg on foot back and forth across the courtyard, retrieving fallen arrows to let them fly again. When Lightning starts deliberately cutting across the shafts, shattering them into light, Hanzo scoops up the arrowheads and runs with the points between his lips, reforming each one, nocking and firing in one smooth motion.

It doesn't make a difference. The cyborg weaves, flips, deflects. Not a single shot lands.

Eventually Hanzo begins to flag. His lungs feel like they've been worn through by overuse, and stitches thread seams through every muscle. The fingers on his right hand bleed and his shots have started going wide or falling short due his to poor grip. A wave of dizziness forces him to pause, and the cyborg finally uses the opportunity to approach. When Hanzo automatically prepares his next arrow regardless, Lightning drops the bokuto and holds up his hand. 

"You're really energetic." The cyborg says as backhanded compliment. "But you know I can do this for basically days, right?" Hanzo's chest heaves and his eyes narrow and when he doesn't respond, the cyborg continues. "I mean, we can keep going if you really want…"

Hanzo draws the arrow and lets it fly at green slash of the cyborg's visor.

Lightning's lithe body swerves backward and the attack streaks past. His are movements just as smooth as they had been an hour ago. 

"Maa, since you're having such a hard time, how about I stay this close and if you finally manage to hit me, we can call it your win, okay?" The cyborg's cheeky tone is insufferably _juvenile_ and Hanzo scowls at him before closing his eyes and shaking his head once. His breaths are coming in too deep to crowd them with words.

"Good call." The cyborg agrees, then puts his feet together as he bows to Hanzo.

Coming on the heels of an exhausting match, it seems so natural. It's only polite. Hanzo returns the bow without thought.

And then they are both caught, spines half-cocked. The cyborg has no face but the way his head jerks up and focuses on Hanzo convinces him the action had been just as much a habit to Lightning.

Hanzo straightens with a grimace. The cyborg instead turns to the right and bows again, with a theatrical flourish, and is met with a quiet scatter of applause and a rowdy, "Yeehaw!"

Unable to stop himself, Hanzo half turns to see that McCree, Roadhog, and the other one, had all moved to sit against the furthest wall, out of the way of the match that had dominated the courtyard. Hanzo has a vague recollection of snarling at the cowboy to move when he hadn't gotten out of his way fast enough, but had otherwise put them out of his mind.

Now Lightning walks toward the small group with a laugh. No doubt to receive praise on his handy victory. Hanzo makes a sharp turn to leave the courtyard, shoving his arm through the left sleeve of his kimono as he goes.

\----------------------

Hanzo retreats to his cell, cleans up, heals his small wounds in the biotic light, and when the cowboy arrives to invite him to join them for dinner, Hanzo declines. McCree accepts that answer without argument and leaves him alone the rest of the night, but the door on his cell stays open.

It is still open when, roused from a dream he can't remember, Hanzo dresses, grabs his cigarettes and decides to chance that the courtyard will be empty at midnight.

It isn't. The area is half lit by floodlights, and in the shadows outside of them Hanzo spots faint red trail of a cigarillo burning in the dark. 

Hanzo grimaces and considers leaving, but the cowboy's voice floats over to him. "Aw, stay, Shimada-san. If you wanna be alone just take the other corner."

He considers it. And then he considers the high ledge of the rock climbing wall. But it is already colder than his liking and it would be worse up in the wind. So instead he approaches the cowboy and claims a slice of wall just within arm's reach. McCree's surprise and pleasure are both obvious, and he offers a flame that Hanzo lights his cigarette on.

For once, the cowboy is silent, and Hanzo lets his focus drift between even breathes and insect chirps. The fall night sinks through the thin fabric of the cheaply made kimono and Hanzo sighs, pulling the sleeves over his fingers.

The cowboy notices and plucks at the corner of his red mantle to call for Hanzo's attention. "You wanna borrow this, Shimada-san?"

Two _Shimada-san's_ already. The cowboy is making an effort.

Hanzo eyes the cloth, knowing it would be warm from McCree's large frame, and a clever move to accept the offering if he wants to keep the man's feathers ruffled in his favor. But what comes out his mouth, cool and uncaring, is "No".

The cowboy tips his hat in polite acknowledgment that doesn't hide his disappointment, and returns to silence.

It's Hanzo that breaks the quiet next, minutes later as he savors the last few drags of his cigarette. "How long do you intend to hold me here, McCree-kun?"

Beside him, the cowboy shifts, his broad shoulders scuffing against the concrete wall. "Well, 'bout however long it takes me to trust you. Reckon that could be a few days or months, pretty much up to you."

Days or months. Based on _trust_. Hanzo wrinkles his nose at the vagueness of it. "And how will you decide I am worthy of your _trust_?"

"I know it when I feel it," McCree replies with a shrug witnessed just in the corner of Hanzo's eye.

"When you feel it."

"Yeap." The cowboy has reached the end of his cigarillo, he rubs out the butt against his boot. "You're a real calculated guy, Shimada-san, but I gotta trust my gut."

It does not surprise him that the cowboy unapologetically moves by instinct. And given how things have gone, Hanzo can't claim that it is foolish. Not when the cowboy has the upperhand and his own calculations have not managed to land him anywhere he wants to be.

But it is irritating just the same, so he lashes out with a casual barb. "The same gut that told you to abandon your previous gang at the first opportunity?"

Beside him, the cowboy stills, then lets out an even, heavy breath. "Yeah, that one." He fishes out a couple of cigarillos. "Look, I know you want to keep pushing that button 'cause it gets under my skin, and maybe I deserve it for starting us off on that foot. But Deadlock wasn't my family; Overwatch is."

Hanzo says nothing to that, just frowns into the middle-distance, and after a moment the cowboy extends a lit cigarillo in front of his face. "Here, try one a these. I wanna know what you think."

Since his thoughts were going nowhere useful, Hanzo agrees to be distracted. He accepts the cigarillo and pulls the smoke across his tongue. The flavor doesn't appeal to him; too heavy, too dark. It obscures everything else. He wonders if this is why the cowboy likes such spicy food; regularly coating your tongue in this would make it impossible to appreciate anything delicate.

But in the chill night the thick smoke feels warmer than his cigarettes, and he relaxes against the wall and lets out the stained breath in an upward trickle. 

The cowboy has turned to watch him, only one shoulder on the wall now, ankles crossed. In doing so he has moved closer and Hanzo decides he doesn't mind the man's radiating warmth.

"I don't like cigars," he finally answers. "But if you are going to smoke them, they come in much higher quality."

Judging by McCree's widening smile, he doesn't take offense at the criticism. "I like these ones. I'm a cowboy, Shimada-san, not a _fancy_ cowboy."

Hanzo is lucky that line comes before he's taken another drag. As it is, a soft startled laugh escapes him. "Very true, you are at best a mangy one."

"Aw, that ain't right either. I tried out the shampoo, you can't call me mangy no more."

"Oh?" It had taken the cowboy a week to follow up on that invitation, but Hanzo lifts his eyebrows and plays his part anyway, reaching up to a lock of hair caught outside the brim of his hat. The cowboy acquises, of course, with a satisfying tension Hanzo can sense just below that rough exterior. The dirt brown hair feels lighter between the pads of his fingers this time; cleaner but dryer. It's tempting to knock aside the hat and run his whole hand into it, just to see how the cowboy would react. Hanzo has a solid suspicion he could bring McCree-kun to his knees with that and little more. 

"So you did. I suppose that's better." Hanzo once again yanks on the lock to watch the shiver run through the cowboy before pulling back.

Instead of coming back with a smart reply, McCree exhales a hard and uneasy breath that turns the corners of Hanzo's lips up.

It's been a long time since he played this game at any length. Usually men would see him at his favorite izakaya, and if they did not annoy him greatly and made an effort to pursue him more than once, he'd often concede. The ones who _did_ annoy him would be advised to leave the establishment. 

But there was really no point to dragging it out longer than that. That was the key, as Hanzo had learned early on; they were not friends, or associates, and certainly not lovers. They were strangers meeting for a night or two over a shared interest. Ones who wanted more than that became annoyances.

The cowboy was already unique, in that this had gone on too long, and Hanzo knew more about the American than most of his other encounters in the last half a decade. Probably, he should tread more carefully. 

Probably, he should care at all.

But he doesn't really. There is no longer anyone to maintain any illusions for other than himself.

If McCree-kun touched him now, Hanzo thinks he would allow it. But it won't happen, because the cowboy holds himself back; as a professional, as a friend or more of the cyborg, as someone who wants to be a decent man.

The quiet descends around them again, both taking their thoughtful drags on the cigarillos, and when Hanzo's gaze cuts toward McCree, the man looks oddly guilty and shifts his eyes away. 

"Hey Shimada-san, I got something I wanna ask you, but you ain't gonna like it."

That sounds far less promising than what Hanzo had been idly considering. He closes his eyes. "What?"

"It's about your brother." The cowboy sounds almost apologetic to be bringing it up, and that note of consideration is all that keeps Hanzo from walking away. 

As it is his shoulders tense and he straightens off the wall, face set to be unreadable and sparing McCree only one hard glance from the corner of his eye.

The cowboy sighs like he expected it, and reaches out a plaintive hand to him, though it lands nowhere and when Hanzo doesn't acknowledge it, he drops it back to his side. "Look. I ain't digging for your worst days just to be an ass." He looks away, still slumped with one shoulder against the wall. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and I believe you. At least on the business about family and loyalty and all that. Hell, I'd put money down that there's never been nothing that mattered even half as much to you."

He is correct on all accounts, but this does little to ease Hanzo's displeasure. "Get to your point, McCree-kun."

"Right. My point." The cowboy takes a deep breath like he's bracing to be kicked. "My point being, I don't get how _that_ guy also is the guy who kills his own flesh and blood."

Hanzo grimaces, and scowls down at the cigarillo between his fingers. "Surely your organization has dug the story up somehow."

The cowboy jangles with every uncomfortable shift. "I got miles of reports, and I've read em all. But all that intel didn't really prepare me for _you_ and so I reckon there's plenty else they don't cover."

Again, Hanzo considers walking away. But he feels frozen in unhappy indecision. His chest tightens so that he can't inhale on his cigar, and a cold nausea of discomfort curdles in his stomach.

Because he is caught off guard, because it is this subject matter, his reactions are easy for McCree-kun to catch and he continues in a more cautious tone. "You don't gotta answer. But not being able to piece it together has been eating at me for days."

"I'm under no obligation to be pieced together by you," the reprimand has no real bite. Hanzo's words feel softer than his own heart beat.

"Nah, you ain't." Again the cowboy moves a hand toward him. Again, it goes nowhere. "But I'm asking anyhow."

Hanzo inhales through his nose and exhales the same, until the buzzing in his head dims and the vice on his consciousness unscrews just enough allow him to make his choices. 

There is no salvaging his night once this subject comes up. He may as well answer the cowboy's questions now and be done with it. 

He sucks on the end of the cigarillo again, holding the air and trying to infuse his disquiet into it. When he exhales he begins, keeping his words even. "I was not meant to rule so young, but my father died under unfortunate circumstances --"

The cowboy thumbs the ridge of his belt. "Car accident, wasn't it?"

"Do not interrupt." Hanzo frowns, huffs, and then continues.

"But _yes_. It was a turbulent time for the clan. If we did not appear strong, then the smaller factions might break off, join other syndicates, or try to move on their own." The meetings then had been a nightmare. Constant bickering, a dozen voices telling him his responsibilities and each with a different idea of what that meant. "Officially, I was now head of the clan and made the decisions. But in reality it is all politics. Disregarding the wrong voices would lessen my authority in those factions. I couldn't afford that; a change in leadership will always threaten the opportunity for a gang war. And if those go badly it costs lives, money, and reputation.

"My brother…" The cigarillo continues to burn down in Hanzo's hand, warming his knuckles.

"Dealing with my brother was, ultimately, a test." He rubs the cigarillo out against the wall at his side, and opens an empty cigarette pack he uses as a trash in slow, careful movements to throw the butt away. "Our father always favored him, and so he was allowed to spend the family's wealth on whatever petty interest had currently taken him; mostly parties and his ever changing flock of lovers." Hanzo clutches the empty pack and crosses his arms in front of him, hands tucked into the opposite sleeve for warmth. "As we grew, he showed less interest… less _pride_ in the family. He began to fail what few jobs he was given. But still, father let him do as he liked.

"I probably also coddled him too much." Because of the bright spots of nearby floodlights, he can't make out any stars. The fabric of the night sky is dark and flat above him. "If I had set the standards for him I should have from the beginning, he wouldn't have grown accustomed to wandering so freely." Despite the unmoving weight in his gut, the criticism rolls out of him easily. He's thought about it often enough that very little is required now. "But our father's death meant it was time for us both to step up and assume our responsibilities. He could no longer shun his… so, of course, he did. And his actions quickly became a public embarrassment that fell on me." His attention shifts to the grass as he frowns, repeating Ando-san's mocking words, "The young leader whose own brother would not even follow him."

Hanzo remains still for several moments, distracted, strangely, by the cowboy's rhythmic breaths. Despite how tight this story winds him, the American seems unphased, and Hanzo absently tries to match his own lungs to that pace.

He closes his eyes, and his words emerge with no particular emotion attached. "Factions within the council argued over _how_ he should be handled. Those who had long felt father was too lenient claimed Genji should die before he could shame the family further, and those who had been closer to us in our childhood believed that if I spoke to my brother honestly he would fall into line."

_You're rambling_ , he thinks. Stalling for time. Like if he put enough words between the point in time where the story finishes that would somehow make it easier. 

Why the hell had he decided to not drink today?

"My brother did not want to fall in line. When I tried to convince him to put aside his shallow lifestyle and help me rule, he refused. So we argued, then fought." Hanzo hears the plastic crackling of the empty cigarette pack being crushed in a tense fist. "I made threats I did not mean, he injured me more badly than he intended, and I…"

The cowboy remains silent, gives him no reprieve. Hanzo stares at nothing at all, remembering a brilliant flash of blue, a dragon's roar so loud it all but drowned out Genji's screams. "In an instant I made a choice I could not unmake."

In the seconds afterward he had wondered what he had done. In the days that followed, he had been met only with a constant confusion at his brother's absence and the silent mantra of _you killed him_. In the next months he came to convince himself it was the right choice, that he had done what was best for the clan. And three years later he finally abandoned that illusion and tried to take his own life.

At his side the cowboy moves, reaches for him, finally finds the courage to set a hand on Hanzo's shoulder. The solid counterpoint of McCree's steady weight informs Hanzo he is shaking, his whole body strung too tight for stillness. He hisses in irritation and the shiver can even be heard on his breath.

Ridiculous. It's been eight years. When will this stop?

"You're saying it was an accident?" The cowboy's drawling speech lends itself well to sorrow. Hanzo can hear the sympathy in his voice and it curls into him, filling him with revulsion.

He jerks away. "No. I said it was a choice."

The cowboy lifts a massive paw again and Hanzo puts the man at his back. Escaping for the exit in short, swift strides.

"Hang on, Shimada--"

Hanzo ignores him, overrides him with a cutting tone.

"Do not talk to me about this again."

On his way back to his cell, he picks up a bottle of sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a fully chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating... updated...

Jesse leaves Hanzo enough time to make his escape, knowing better than to ask any more of the man tonight, and if he's being honest, he wouldn't know what to ask anyhow. Hanzo and Genji ain't much alike, and Jesse isn't the sort to go around hugging strangers without at least a few pints in him. But Hanzo's hasty exit leaves him with a clinging sense of guilt; made another man bleed just to see what color it ran and he couldn't even offer to bandage it off.

He huffs and leans back against the wall and resists the urge to light up again. The scent of the cigarillos still perfumes the air. He tugs his serape around tighter around his neck.

At least he'd found out what he needed to know. Jesse'd pretty well suspected, but it was a comfort to be sure there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that man wouldn't want to know if his brother was still alive. 

It'd be nice if that assurance buried the discomfort over how Hanzo was hurting now, but it doesn't much.

He isn't going to be able to sleep on this for a while, so after he's sure Hanzo's gone to hide out back in his cell, Jesse grabs a beer from the kitchen and lets his feet wander. 

He knows the base by heart. It was one of the earliest and largest Watchpoints, and where Jesse did most of his post gang-life education. From getting some schooling under his belt to learning more about how to run an op than shooting any fellas on the other side. It'd also been where the Blackwatch crew more or less called home; centralized by Reyes' desk, Pallas' servers, and the fact that more than half the other Watchpoints didn't even give them a meeting room of their own.

Home is where the heart is, or something like that, and his heart'd been here longer than anywhere else. 

Jesse used to keep an apartment in the area, but after he stopped using it for the occasional hook up the whole place fell into disuse. Empty spaces shared by no one, all his own, weren't a thing he'd ever had a shot at before. Turned out the loneliness had been haunting. So he'd saved himself the money, reduced his personal possessions to what could be fit in a trunk, and moved back onto base. He didn't even bother to claim a room for himself, though seniority had long since earned him a bed and a door and his own shower He just can't sleep without hearing someone else breathing, so he stays in the barracks. Roadhog snores like a temperamental buzzsaw and Jesse kinda loves it.

And if he wanted space, then there was this.

A sheer unprotected cliff giving way to an endless expanse of dark ocean, the line of the horizon broken by a solitary ship making an extra early escape out to sea. The black night overhead dusted with a thick layer of stars that were only visible once you got away from the base's ever bright lights. It isn't the same as the desert, but in a lot of ways it isn't so different. A big sky and a punishing sense of smallness that Jesse'd come to find more comforting the older he got.

And if the quiet crash of waves and the yawning night got him feel lonesome, then there was _this_.

A small bodied cyborg sitting cross legged on the cliff's edge, creating a soft green circle of light that pulses in rhythm to his ever-even breathes. 

Genji's visor is dimmed, which means eyes closed, but his posture is straight and relaxed, and just like that Jesse knows he's having a good night. Not sure what happened, maybe it was just finally getting to go at his brother with non-lethal intentions, but it eases Jesse's own worries a bit to see. 

He sits down just on the edge of Genji's glow, sipping at his beer and letting the chill night air leech the nerves out of him.

"Did something happen?" Genji asks after no more than a minute of silence. When Jesse looks over he see's the green slice of visor has lit up again. 

Jesse shrugs, an expansive gesture that turns into a yawn. He doesn't want to lie but he doesn't want to tell the truth either. If his friend was is finally on a good run again he isn't gonna weigh him down by bring up what Hanzo'd told him. "Nothing for you to worry about, pardner."

Genji's head cocks, stiff and birdlike, and after a moment he plants his hands against the dirt, scooting himself toward Jesse until their knees touch. "You could still tell me."

Shit, that's cute. Jesse grins at him. "If you really wanna help out. I'd like t'hear what's got you in such a fine mood."

A thoughtful hum buzzes out of the cyborg, slightly electronic. He rocks a few inches forward and back, a pleased roll full of energy instead of the anxious vibration. Jesse lets out an amused huff when Genji says nothing, "Is it a secret?"

"Nah," Genji admits, poking at the treads on his feet, uncertainty peeking out past his thrumming excitement. "I want to show you but... it might not work."

Huh. Jesse really can't guess what the hell his friend might be on about. Some new ninja stunt? Jesse watched him practice sometimes, it was always quite a show. "Well uh, dunno what we're even talking about. But why not just give it your best shot?"

Genji sits straight and looks McCree full in the face, then nods. "Okay," he says, a quiet murmur, and pulls his right hand in front of him, two fingers vertical before his chest. "I'll show you."

Like he'd flipped a switch, every light on Genji goes out, and in the absence of it for a few seconds Jesse can only see faint green after images that blur the ninja sitting silent in the dark. Jesse stays quiet, beer resting on his knee. He's got no real idea what's going on, but the sudden darkness demands silence, and he's happy to obey.

The green discs burned into Jesse's eyes take a long time to fade, and with nothing else to focus on he absently tracks them, letting his focus relax as the dim lime haze spreads across Genji's body and brightens. 

Brightens? Something about that seems off.

Jesse sits straight, blinks, leans forward and peers at his friend. He rubs his eyes before he's sure it isn't a trick of his vision getting lost in the dark. Genji's glowing. Or maybe it was better to say the air around him was glowing; a soft iridescent cloud the same color as his cybernetic lights. It gathers around, bumping up against some invisible force that keeps it anchored near his body, like smoke trapped under glass.

And as Jesse focuses, he sees ripples within the smoke. At first he thinks it's an eddy created by his or Genji's breathes. But the time and place is wrong. Once, he is sure he sees scales.

And then, it's gone, far more quickly than it had formed. The fog disappears, winking out like a shut eye. Genji's left alone, sagging. Jesse realizes he can hear mechanical whirr that is now louder than any of the other night sounds, and with several clicks and just as many hisses, the cylinders on Genji's shoulders eject and exhale. The air around them warms several degrees before a breeze carries back the chill.

"Holy shit," Jesse breathes.

A tired chuckle bounces out of Genji and Jesse reaches out to steady him, but it isn't necessary. The cylinders withdraw into the cyborg's frame again and the hum that's overtaken him begins to cycle back down toward something quieter. "I'm okay. You saw her?"

"I saw _something_ alright. Looked kinda like you were fixing to send off smoke signals. Was that..?" Jesse's a little afraid to say it. Genji'd told him a bit about the Shimada's dragons, but the subject had always made him clam up and Jesse got the idea that for the cyborg any business with spirits was long in the past.

"My dragon. She returned." When Genji says it there's a relief there Jesse's never heard, deep and long as taking a breath out of drowning waters. "After… after I lost my body, she was just gone. I thought, _of course_ , how can a machine summon a dragon? I stopped trying. Then, early this morning, she was just…" Genji taps the center of his chest. "Here."

_Holy shit_. Jesse looks up into the night sky, half expecting to see a green cloud hovering around, but all he has is that faint afterimage burned against his retinas as a reminder of what he'd well and truly seen. "Goddamn, pardner. That's just about the wildest thing I've ever seen. You all glowing like that, straight out of a movie."

Genji laughs with ease in his voice that makes Jesse want to sink into it too, and he grins right back. Jesse's got an urge to reach out and snag him, tug his small friend close, but feels that might be a bit off script, so he grabs for his beer instead. "So, you can just summon dragons now?"

"Not exactly," Genji makes a so-so motion with his right hand. "She is weak, I'm out of practice."

Jesse fidgets with the tab on his can, tearing it off before long. "How long's it take to get _in_ practice?"

"Hah," there's a tiredness past Genji's amusement, and he shifts closer, until he's leaning up against Jesse's side. "Last time? About ten years."

_Well hey, maybe not so off script after all._ Genji's still unusually warm from whatever the hell summoning a dragon had done on his synthetic body, and Jesse winds an arm around the cyborg's narrow shoulders. "Guess you ain't gonna be siccing a dragon on any baddies for a while."

"I don't know, really." Genji tugs on the tips of Jesse's fingers where they hang across his chest. "I don't even know why she returned."

And Jesse curls his fingers back, pinching synthetic pads between his own calloused ones. "Well, it's got to have to do with your brother, don't it? Anything else different?"

Jesse can feel Genji's head shake where it's tucked under his arm. "Not _that_ different."

Silence settles, and Jesse closes the book on the conversation with a quiet _aw, well…_ then drains the rest of his beer. A cowboy sure as hell isn't the guy to figure out why dragons do what they do, especially if the ninja doesn't even know. Kinda feels like a good omen, though. 

\------------------- 

After how things had gone for him last night, Jesse half expects Hanzo to hole up in his cell at least til noon like he did the day before, but instead the cowboy's surprised to catch the yakuza first thing in the morning. They cross paths as Hanzo makes for the kitchen and Jesse for the showers, and an off-guard _howdy_ earns a him a cursory nod.

As he washes off, Jesse tells himself Hanzo probably just wanted to get something and wasn't going to stick around for breakfast, but when he makes it to the kitchen himself, Hanzo is drinking tea at the table and rice is on. Jesse's informed that he needs to procure food that isn't in a can, and when asked for a list it turns out Hanzo's already written one up.

Roadhog and Junkrat show up around when the smell of cooking chorizo starts to waft down the hall, and Hanzo abides by introductions with the wiry young man whose arm and face he'd broken a little over a week earlier. He doesn't _apologize_ , but McCree half suspects Junkrat doesn't wholly even remember.

Over breakfast Hanzo makes polite conversation, inquiring about the origins of the two junkers. His interest turns genuine when Junkrat starts on how hairy things had gotten in Australia, and how it'd really only been natural to turn to a life of international crime.

"Until McCree-kun captured you?" Hanzo asks, quiet and unreadable as he rubs a finger back and forth across the lip of his mug.

"Now hang on," Junkrat corrects, with a defensive air. " _I_ caught him _first!_ "

When Hanzo lifts a practiced brow at Jesse, he grins in response. "Kid likes traps, real nasty ones. Lucky I didn't come out of that needing another cybernetic."

Junkrat preens with no sign of apology and slicks back his uneven hair. "You blokes that've never lived on the heap don't watch where you're heading! You're all just _begging_ to lose a leg or two."

"You shoulda followed up instead of crowing about it." That bear trap had hurt worse than a mad dog but he'd able to stun Junkrat and shoot him in his prosthetic joints until the kid dropped. "You might still be whistling dixie on your way to Panama."

That takes the fuel out of Junkrat's fire, and Jesse gives him a good natured smack on the shoulder as the junker wilts and picks over his breakfast. "Most people take a couple of ticks to fight back after I trap em."

Hanzo nudges the conversation back toward Junkrat's story,"So you were also… _requisitioned_ to assist with Blackwatch?"

"Press-ganged," Roadhog exhales from his end of the table. 

Junkrat shrugs. "We'd been talking about going legit for a while anyway, hadn't we, Roadie?"

"That was you."

"The life of crime didn't suit you?" Hanzo probes with that same easy intent. Jesse thinks this is the longest he's seen the man go without starting to sound judgey.

But the question still makes Junkrat cagey, and peers across the table at Hanzo with that jittery light he sometimes gets in his eye and laughs. "Suit us? We're the _best_ at it, mate. You _seen_ our rap sheets?" Junkrat reaches out and smacks Roadhog on his exposed stomach, making the big man grunt. "They could wrap around tubby here eight-- _ten_ times!"

Jesse is used to the junkers by now, Roadhog's silence that somehow manages to range from a charmed contentment to a thundering threat, and Junkrat's bright bursts of manic energy that would often as not end up in something on fire if Jesse didn't keep the kid away from explosives. But he expects Hanzo, with his poncy lifestyle of a refined criminal, to at least balk at Junkrat's crass and chaotic ways. 

Except all Hanzo does is nod, as if he takes the young man at his word, "If that is the case, why 'go legit'?"

"Er…" Junkrat stalls, his gaze turning inward. It's an interesting question, one Jesse has guessed the answers to himself but never pushed the junkers to put into words. "Well ya see--"

"Better than jail," Roadhog interjects, saving Junkrat from a more complex answer. 

Junkrat clutches at his friend's response. "Roight! We got caught and you know. This place ain't _great_ and the pay was better robbing banks, but it beats busting out of jail."

Hanzo accepts the obvious, partial untruth with a quiet hum and a sip of tea.

After breakfast, Hanzo does dishes without being asked; gathering dirtied bowls from the table and grease-caked pan from the stove. Jesse's almost afraid to ask him about it, like the wrong word will startle him into hiding. 

What happens instead is as the final dishes are being set to dry, Roadhog begins to removes his baking supplies and Hanzo lingers with interest. Sugar cookies; the mountainous man informs through his mask, and then just as easily; come back later and to help decorate.

After Hanzo nods ands strides quietly out of the kitchen with a promise to return in two hours, Jesse figures maybe he should stop figuring he knows all that much about the elder Shimada.

\----------------

Decorating sugar cookies is an art, apparently. One Hanzo is surprisingly well suited to, by the way he studies Roadhog completing a single cookie before going to work himself on a sheet of them. 

The yakuza's hands hold small piping bags of bright colors with the steadiness of a surgeon, and make even lines across pale baked canvas, faithfully replicating designs Roadhog has drawn in preparation. Once the outline is finished the rest is filled in with a colored liquid sugar the pools, leaving an even and glossy surface. While the sugar is still wet, more colors are applied and sink into the surface, creating the illusion of a painted layer of frosting.

Jesse's strictly forbade from smoking around the cookies by a sharp look from Hanzo when he reaches for his cigarillos, but damned if he's not going to stick around and watch this. So he kicks his feet up on a free chair and watches Hanzo, tattooed arms exposed with his sleeves rolled up to his armpits, set about the delicate work of piping a manically grinning bomb onto a cookie. Across the table Roadhog hunches over a regular sheet of paper made miniscule in comparison, working on new designs with a set of colored markers that disappear in his hands.

"So…" Jesse finally can't help but ask, "You work at a bakery front or something?"

Hanzo scoffs softly as he applies a silhouette of bright red flames. The lines of Hanzo's first few cookies had a bit of a waver in them, but his skill is tightening up quick. "No. But I am excellent at calligraphy, and copying someone's work is not so difficult. Roadhog-san is the artist."

Something about that makes corner's of Jesse's mouth pull all the way up, and he wonders what exactly Roadhog'd done to earn the yakuza's respect. The man himself might also be wondering that, as Jesse catches a quiet pause from Roadhog across the table; just a brief stillness of his meaty hands before he continues drawing without comment.

It's slow work, and though Jesse knows he should take off, see what Junkrat's gotten up to, or check on the intel he asked Pallas to dig up on Kokan's routes in China, the peacefulness of the morning's activities are like lead on his feet. He reads instead, squinting his way through pages and pages of news cycles in exchange for something quiet to work on without having to go anywhere. 

Every time he looks over Hanzo and Roadhog have moved on to new design. He recognizes the Blackwatch logo, a cactus wearing a cowboy hat and scarf that Hanzo snorts at, a cartoonish silhouette of a gorilla riding a rocket. Jesse grins when he sees the last one, "You and Winston getting along now?"

Roadhog shrugs, a rise and fall of his massive shoulders that seems to involve his entire frame. 

The hours roll by until there are only a couple of cookies left to be beautified, and Jesse finally submits to the need to get started on his work if he doesn't want to be up until the early AM. He rolls to his feet, stretches a kink out of his shoulders, and as he makes his way out catches Hanzo staring hard at the most recent design Roadhog has shoved his way.

It's a blue dragon, coiling around on itself, accented by jagged gold lines.

Jesse tries to make on as if he noticed nothing, but still get to the door slow enough that his gaze can linger. 

A startled Hanzo glances twice between the dragon he holds and a silent-at-work Roadhog, before setting the paper down without saying anything. He reaches for the blue icing as Jesse leaves the kitchen.

Jesse tugs on the brim of his hat, and feels a little foolish at the length of the smile stretching his mug.

"Well, I'll be." 

\---------------------------

Genji continues to work with Hanzo daily in the rec yard, dodging and deflecting arrow after arrow. 

It's arresting, sometimes. Genji is reminded of how grateful for his body's refusal to be compromised by his often inept and uncertain emotions. He can do backflips all day and the threat of nostalgia will never make his heart race, never halt his breath. 

Hanzo always wants to be hyper focused on combat, immune to distractions, nothing but relentless precision punctuated by pride as his efforts pay off. And so Genji has always seen breaking that concentration as an entertaining secondary challenge to their matches. Sometimes that meant mocking his brother's failures, offering challenge after challenge to goad Hanzo into overreaching. Two days ago that had worked, and Hanzo had pushed himself to wordless exhaustion until Genji had to prompt him to give up. Yesterday it had worked less, and today Hanzo ignores his voice entirely, landing every fourth arrow as he stops seeing the enemy cyborg and fixates instead on nothing but a green and silver blur.

And when his barbs fail to find purchase under Hanzo's skin, they prick Genji instead. 

Worse, Hanzo offers no verbal sparring at all. There's no mockery for 'Lightning' when arrows begin to explode in blue light against his chassis, damaging nothing but Genji's pride. Hanzo moves on to the next arrow, the next attack. 

Hanzo's focus is directed at him in its entirety and Genji has never felt more invisible.

So he breaks first. Like he always does. 

Three arrows strike him in succession. Shoulder, hip, face. Hanzo is getting better and faster with his new bow at a rate Genji would find remarkable if he hadn't spent a lifetime on the receiving end of his brother's abilities. With two hands he could have deflected it, but with one Hanzo has learned the limitations of his strikes and uses it to his advantage. 

But his brother says nothing. No smirk, no proud snipe, not pause to let Genji regain his focus. More arrows fly, Genji cuts them down and for the first time in their three days of practice bolts toward Hanzo.

_This_ earns something like surprise, finally. But Hanzo is quick to react regardless. He doesn't protest or question the change in tactics, he falls back, firing at Genji's feet. Genji jumps, closes the distance, forces Hanzo to lift his bow in defense. It's sturdy; the way Hanzo likes them. He blocks the bokuto in Genji's hand, shoves forward as he tries to trip up Genji's footing.

Genji darts half a step back, kicks his brother's face where the strike is just caught by the bow, and follows up with four pounding whacks of his wooden sword that put Hanzo on the defensive.

Frustration and confusion finally break past Hanzo's unmoving focus, and he curses as Genji drives him back against a tree.

Hanzo escapes before Genji can even register a sense of triumph; using Genji's unworking arm to his advantage and slipping to Genji's left while the tree limits the range of his sword to the right. His elder brother bolts for higher ground that will work to his advantage, gathering three scattered arrows as he runs, and Genji resists the urge to use his shuriken to slow him down.

Hanzo beats him to the roof of the shed, aiming down at him with a critical eye and rapid releases his arrows. The first is blocked, but it bursts into a brilliant light that blinds Genji's optics, and the next two shatter against his faceplate, further incapacitating him.

Genji curses and drops low to the ground. He feels the graze of his brother's kick, launched from the roof of the shed, just missing him. 

He spins upright, reaches to block with a hand he can't manipulate, swears again and silently is grateful Dr. Ziegler would be repairing his body tomorrow. Hanzo's bow connects with the left side of his head in a hit that would be dizzying were he human. 

Genji hooks his sword inside the string of Hanzo's bow, and a sharp spin yanks his brother's weapon from his grip and sends it flying across the yard. 

This should mark the end of the end of the match, but even through Genji's sudden, unprovoked attack, Hanzo has remained calculated and unmovable. Winning isn't enough. 

So Genji closes the distance between them, smacking bruises into Hanzo's blocking arms. Hanzo gives ground unwillingly, catches Genji's sword in his bare hands only to be kicked in the stomach for the trouble. Genji doesn't think about it; his focus is on stoking the anger he can see flickering beneath Hanzo's frozen surface. 

This time when Hanzo is forced back against a tree, Genji guards his left with the bokuto rocking across his brother's extended neck. 

Hanzo's breath heaves, and Genji doesn't press hard enough to restrict it. But he is still thrown back to three days ago and the threat he had made then.

The anger Genji had thought he'd seen surfaces as bewildered irritation, Hanzo closes his eyes. "Must you be so _damned_ indecisive?"

Genji stills, not sure what to say to that until a startled laugh crackles out of him. His CNT liquify as the bitter tensions escapes, thanks to something as simple as Hanzo unwittingly voicing an old complaint. Genji withdraws, letting his wary brother down off his toes. Hanzo scowls at him then rights the clothing that came loose during the match. 

"I _have_ decided." Genji says after several moments of silence, watching Hanzo put himself back together. "I won't be killing you." 

Hanzo freezes, halfway through the motion of pulling his left sleeve up. He doesn't meet Genji's gaze.

But that isn't right. That wasn't what Genji'd wanted to say. Hanzo already knows that much.

He tries again, his voice habitually leaning mechanical in avoidance of revealing any emotion. "I want you to live."'

"Why?" _Now_ Hanzo meets his gaze.

And _this_ is what finally brings out Hanzo's anger. Bright streaks of it temper Hanzo's already sharp-enough features.

"I…" Maybe Genji should just tell him. Hanzo doesn't have a real weapon to attack him with. He knows waiting until Dr. Ziegler repairs him is just a stall tactic to benefit his own cowardice.

But Hanzo doesn't wait for him to decide. Instead he hisses in irritation and snaps a hand against Genji's chest with not even enough force to be called a shove but it leaves Genji feeling off balance just the same. "Are you _sorry?_ "

"No." He doesn't need to think about that answer. 

Hanzo snorts and lifts his chin, appraising Genji with a casual disregard he'd never felt as the little brother. "Do you regret it?"

" _No_ ," Genji repeats, annoyance leaking into his own voice now. "The Shimada got what they deserved."

"Feh," Now Hanzo shoves past Genji. "If you cared about that at all, I would also be dead."

Genji steps aside, letting Hanzo brush past him on his way to retrieve his bow. He isn't wrong.

"I am beginning to wonder if _you_ even know why am I am here." Disgruntlement radiates off Hanzo's back in slow waves. He checks the bow for damage and appears to find none. 

_Because I want my brother back_.

The response appears in his mind with such a sudden clarity that Genji feels an echo of nausea. Admitting that he wanted Hanzo to live, and the unexpected validation of his dragon returning, had made at least this much clear. He doesn't know how to feel about Hanzo in many other ways, but it's become impossible to deny that since he agreed to let McCree help him capture Hanzo, this has been his only real goal.

Saying it, though, is another matter. That idea only increases the phantom feeling of his guts dropping out. 

When he doesn't reply, Hanzo levels a searching frown at him.

Genji shrugs, bokuto held loosely and palm turned up. "Maybe I'll tell you when you actually win a match."

Nice deflect.

"No, you will not." Hanzo smirks, a threat lingers in his voice. "When I win it will be because you are dead. _I_ am not prone to indecision."

The threat doesn't hurt. Though there is a real impulse to point out that Hanzo could have benefitted from being a little indecisive the _last_ time he'd decided to kill him. 

Of course, Hanzo intends to kill 'Lightning'. No wonder he is so focused during their matches.

When Genji can think of no response that doesn't give away his identity, he only shrugs again, and Hanzo exhales a harsh, disappointed breath that thrills Genji more than it probably should. He'd always enjoyed his brother's petty aggravation.

Hanzo turns, dismissing him. He retrieves the bucket he uses and begins to gather the scattered arrowheads and the occasional unbroken arrow from the short grass of the rec yard.

Genji follows him, setting aside his sword to help. His sensors have an easy time picking up the small silver glints hidden among the blades of grass. And while Hanzo treats him to an arch look of suspicion when Genji delivers a handful of arrowheads, he doesn't complain or comment.

"I heard you're getting along with Roadhog-san." Genji says, mostly to interrupt Hanzo's chosen silence.

It works better than he had hoped, Hanzo straightening like Genji had needled him directly in the spine. "And who is telling you that? Is that the cowboy's interpretation?"

"Is he wrong?" Genji asks, voice easy.

Hanzo clucks his tongue and continues his search. "He is the least irritating member of your little abduction ring."

Genji is struck by the familiar urge to grin, and the almost unnoticed pang that he cannot. "So you like the gigantic, rumbly type?"

He's teasing, of course. It's an old habit, trying to suss out his brother's interests only to be rebuffed with a casual efficiency. It had taken him _years_ to realize his brother wasn't actually asexual with how deftly he avoided Genji's prying.

And maybe it's _too_ familiar. The look Hanzo gives him isn't one of insecurity or irritation, but a shrewd uncertainty that cuts through Genji's synthetic shell and pins down whatever human core he still has. 

How close could he get? How many times could Genji trip Hanzo's memories of his dead brother before he stopped convincing himself he was only seeing ghosts?

Genji lacks the courage to find out the answer, and maybe Hanzo does as well. He doesn't answer the question, and Genji does not tease him again.

\-----------------

"Let's take a look, shall we?"

Angela Ziegler, in the flesh, always seems to radiate just slightly. Genji can't tell if it is the bias of his fondness for her or just the combination of pale features, pristine scrubs, and the bright lights of the operating room.

Genji lies on a stainless steel table as Dr. Ziegler uses a delicate touch to unwrap the bandages, clicking her tongue at a slow and thoughtful pace while she exposes the damage. "Hmm, it doesn't look as if it has worsened much. Thank you for being careful."

"I didn't want to cause further inconvenience," Genji assures her as he relaxes under her familiar touch.

"You are not an inconvenience, Genji." Her words are sure but automatic; it's a regular exchange between them.

Though they use an operating room, repairs on Genji's body are but a comical echo of how a human's wounds are dealt with. Dr. Ziegler scrubs down, but there is no real possibility of infection. There is no need for an anesthesiologist, either, as the doctor simply accesses his nervous system via a port in the back of his neck and disables all sensation to his left arm. He does not have to be unconscious when he cannot feel pain, and she does not require the help of a nurse because there will be no blood, no chance of his body arresting under the intrusion of being cut into, and no need to move with any particular swiftness.

So she sits next to him at the table, peeling away layer after layer of CNT to expose the broken joint in his elbow. 

It _is_ disorienting, but it is an experience Genji has has lived hundreds of times. The unfeeling cybernetic limb still is _his_ in a way he cannot fully detach from. But after watching Dr. Ziegler assemble his body over the course of a year, he has long since stopped being bothered by these little 'operations'.

As she works, they catch up. Dr. Ziegler has a full month ahead, mostly speeches and lectures. And after being hounded by the UN for weeks she is actually looking forward to a speaking tour. She confides, tone quiet and rueful, that she has done so much talking the last few months she is almost glad Genji needed her to do some medical work.

"If you ever want an excuse to spend a while putting someone back together again, just say the word, doctor. I know a guy who'd be happy to take me apart."

It's a joke, of course, he says it with an easy laugh. But Genji often forgets that he and Dr. Ziegler's senses of humor are just a bit off-beat from each other. She tsks. "You _would_ wouldn't you? Is it the prisoner? Are they still here?"

Genji swears -- _mentally_ , never in front of her -- and feels his shoulders tense against the metal table. Dr. Ziegler notices this and sighs, going quiet as she continues her work. 

She says nothing to reprimand him, make demands, or complain. But something in the pinch of her features, the way her breath escapes her, sounds sad. The guilt chews at his him and he has no option to escape right now.

He has never _had_ a way to run from her. Not after a year of being kept under her near constant care. But unlike McCree she did not come to him with warm arms or an intimate gesture, and she does not pry into the details of his life or offer advice on what to do with it. She just rebuilds him a body from nothing, and does not ask him if he likes it, so that he never has to lie to her.

He does not like lying to her now.

"It… is not just 'a prisoner'." The words work their way out with a clear hesitation. Each syllable takes effort. He tells himself it is practice for being honest with Hanzo. "It is my brother."

Dr. Ziegler always moves in small, careful gestures. At his explanation she stills, glances up at him, back to the wound, and then resumes her slow exhumation of the metal skeleton buried within ribbons of CNT. "The one who tried to kill you?"

"Yes," Genji admits as his entire body focuses itself to sense even the tiniest criticism from her.

Genji watches her eyes close for a beat too long. He can hear the depth of her breath, held within her chest, before it is released in a quiet exhale. 

"Since you have told me that much. I would like to know why."

That question again. 

Genji shifts his gaze to the ceiling, finds nothing to distract him.

"I want my brother back."

Her eyes widen; it's more honesty than she expected. And if Genji had not felt the need to voice the desire to _himself_ , it is probably more than he would have shared with her. He still feels hit by a wave of embarrassment, and feigns being too distracted by a blank ceiling to notice her staring at him.

But the peripheral vision she gave him is _insane_ , and he can make out her softening smile without turning his head. 

Genji has never known Dr. Ziegler to feel rushed into responses. She says nothing for several minutes, and Genji can hear tiny clicks of her implements against his skeleton. He looks over to see she has almost completely peeled back the layers of his arm, displaying twisted metal around the joint of his elbow. 

It looks kind of cool.

"So," she finally says, reaching for a small blowtorch and pulling on her visor. "How is he doing?"

Genji shrugs with his working shoulder. He will not expose Hanzo's mental state to her the way he would to McCree. "I haven't told him who I am yet. He's pretty pissed."

Beyond the reflective sheen of the visor he watches her wince, then schools her features into tight focus as she burns through the damaged portion of his 'bones'. 

"I was going to tell him once my arm was working again," he assures. Dr. Ziegler has never lectured him the way she does McCree or even the Commander, but he prefers to keep it that way.

"One moment," she hums, then works with a silent focus until the broken joint is removed and she breathes a sigh of relief. "Hard part number one, taken care of." She pats Genji on the shoulder and turns on her stool to pick items from a precisely laid out tray. She removes and places down the visor. "And how are _you_ doing, with your brother around?"

Genji stumbles at how to answer that. He does not want to explain what it is like to feel raw, like all the wounds she had repaired and built on top of years ago are opening again. Is it good or bad, and at the end would he have a synthetic relationship with the last of his family? Something technically better, and yet incapable of ever making him feel whole again?

So he laughs in defense, airy and soft. "I thought you were not a psychologist, doctor?"

"I am absolutely _not_." She tsks at him as she turns back, equipped with a new joint in one hand and a specialized soldering iron in the other. She does not look at him as she works, her focus intent on what she is doing. "But… I hope by now it isn't a surprise that I care."

It's always a surprise, really. 

He doesn't say that.

"I'm fine, doctor. I'm sorry for worrying you." He knows it isn't the response she wants, but what else he could say eludes him. He reaches for some other assurance. "McCree has… been taking care of me."

That makes her brows lift, her eyes flicker up to him before she recenters on her work. " _Well_. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, I know he hides a soft spot under all of that silly cowboy dress up."

Genji relaxes, "I think he's mostly soft spots."

"For the right people, perhaps." Dr. Ziegler laughs, an easy little huff almost lost under the electric hiss of the soldering iron.

He feels a tiny prick of pride at her words. She isn't wrong; McCree does offer him special treatment, and Genji has no inclination to stop taking advantage of it.

The rest of the surgery proceeds in silence, and Genji finds himself drifting on the operating table, as comfortable here as he is anywhere. 

"Alright. In an hour you should be as good as new." Dr. Zieger applies a fresh bandage that is probably unneeded, and returns sensation to his arm. He feels nothing worse than a faint soreness, and the biotech paste she invented will eventually seal the nanotubes with a barely visible scar; he's familiar with the drill.

She leans over him, lifting one hand just short of touching his jaw. "How is your face doing, Genji? May I check it?"

He is fully awake again in an instant, tension rolling through his guts. She notices but does not comment, and after a moment he nods. 

The faceplace comes off easily if you know where to press, and there is a hiss as the airtight seal is broken. His vision flickers and narrows when his faceplate switches to auxiliary power and its sensors continue to remotely transmitting vision to nanobots in his brain. There a faint, dizzying overlay of double-vision; his useless eyes manage to show him only off-white shapes, like pale clouds moving against a bright sky.

Genji blinks, tries not to think, and waits for her to be done. This feels much more like having his flesh peeled back, disturbing insides exposed, than her cutting through the CNT. 

She does not waste time. 

Genji has a bare sensation of pressure on his ruined skin as she inspects where biological flesh meets synthetic.

He keeps his eyes open while she looks into them and finds them no more damaged than usual.

The guard that seals off what is left of his nose is peeled away for her to verify nothing has started growing inside.

Then, within a few minutes, she is putting his faceplate back in place. Genji relaxes with a faint shudder of relief when at the worst being over. 

"Everything is looking fine," she informs him with prescribed cheer, then lowers herself to the stool as Genji sits up. "Have you thought about Dr. Suh? In the last few years her reconstruction techniques have only become more impressive."

Genji resists the urge to cringe, and regrets he hasn't prepared a response for this conversation.

It has been a while since Dr. Ziegler encouraged him to look into body modification that went beyond her expertise. He _hadn't_ thought about it, was the truth. Dr. Ziegler had once told him that with minimal work he could have his skin replaced with something that didn't need to be pneumatically sealed to avoid infection. New flesh and a pair of cybernetic eyes would allow him to take off his mask, engage with people face-to-face again. _Sounds exciting,_ had been the dry response Genji had offered back then. _I know_ I've _always wanted to see an omnic with half a human face. Uncanny valley is where sexy went._

Now that he isn't feeling quite so prickly, her question just stirs an uneasiness in him. Like reaching into the dark and touching something unknown and slimy. 

"I, ah. Appreciate the suggestion, Dr. Ziegler." He tries to sound earnest, but can tell he has only revealed his discomfort.

"Do you," she murmurs, quiet enough that Genji can tell she doesn't mean for him to respond. He wonders if it would be rude to leave now, while she is still sitting, when she licks her lips and continues. "Genji… there is something I'm afraid I never told you. About your body."

Genji freezes, turning his full attention on her. That is not what he had been expecting but he is sure it can't be going anywhere good. Was there some time limit on a full cybernetic prosthetic? Would his still too-organic brain eventually not be able to keep up? Was she simply tired of maintaining it? Did Overwatch decide he owed them the millions of dollars that had gone into his making, and eliminating his family still didn't foot the bill?

None of these ideas sounded likely, at least not coming from Dr. Ziegler. So he waits until she speaks.

"Eight years ago I was… very distracted. I didn't know if I could really _do it_." She laughs, as her gaze drifts away, focusing on some nostalgia to Genji's left. "I really had no idea if you would walk, much less _flip_." She brushes at a stray dangling hair and Genji curls his fingers over the rim of the table. "I was so focused on the _if_ and _how_ of building a cybernetic body, I think I forgot to perform some of my most fundamental duties as a doctor."

When Genji doesn't respond, she continues.

Or, she tries to continue, but whatever words she has get stuck on their way out of her. Her breath shortens. She gets to her feet and looks away. The fingers of her left hand tug at the digits of her right.

"Do you understand _why_ I built you that body? Why… well. Why I do any of this?"

If she were asking Jack Morrison, the official answer would be to give Genji the chance to do the right thing. But he already knows Dr. Ziegler had never approved of his part in bringing down the Shimada-gumi. 

He looks down and traces one finger along the rim of the table. "You save people. That is what doctors do."

"That's one way to think about it." Quiet and to herself again. "But can it really be called _saving_ when so many of them return to the battlefields, only to…" She forces out a heavy breath. When she turns to face him her eyes are sad but her expression restrained. "I can't tell you how many men and women I supposedly 'saved' were dead a week later."

Genji slips down off of the table, uncertain of where this is going, or if he wants to go with her. He isn't like McCree. Confiding in him does no one any good. Whatever ability to offer comfort he'd once had was long lost with the rest of his body, and anyway, he how can he sympathize with not being able to save lives? All he does is take them.

Dr. Ziegler doesn't seem to be bothered by Genji's lack of response, and she approaches as if she can see him yearning to make an escape. "I don't save lives, Genji. Not really. But I do offer chances." A rosy glow charms her cheeks and she doesn't meet his gaze. Genji is not sure he has ever seen her look embarrassed before. "My hope was that by making a body, I was offering you a chance to take your life back."

"Dr. Ziegler…" Her name echoes out of him, slow and soft. He is stuck, unsure, with nothing to add.

She laughs, and looks to the side, and brushes that same lock of hair back. "You see? This is why I'm not a psychologist. I can't talk about these things." She forces out a short breath and meets his eyes. "But don't think I haven't noticed the way you apologize to me for getting hurt. It's _your body_ , Genji, not my invention.

"I hope you understand that. I wish I had said that more clearly eight years ago."

Her reassurance shames him in a way he will never explain. He feels small and foolish, that Dr. Ziegler felt he needed to have something so obvious spelled out for him. That she wasn't wrong.

A buzzing begins in the back of his head, fishing for words becomes impossible. Should he apologize or thank her? 

Beyond the vibration ringing through his mind, he recalls a long faded memory of his brother teaching him how to do both.

Genji straightens, places both hands in front of him, two fingers of each pressed together, and bows.

\------------------

Genji avoids people for the rest of the day, looking for anything to waste his time on that won't expose him to others while he feels like a lit firecracker; fuse burning down but with no idea when it will go off, or what show will result.

He climbs to the highest point of the base and summons his dragon. She stays with him for almost thirty seconds this time, until his body burns so hot it begins to shut down. 

It's a clean feeling of exhaustion; something he can't achieve easily through mere sparring or sword practice. This body -- _his?_ body -- was made to have superhuman limits. So it takes something beyond humanity to consume so much energy so quickly that it begins to disable systems in self defense. 

He feels his coolant filters eject and a hiss scalds the cool air around him. His limbs become heavy as safety protocols refuse to let him expend any more energy. His optics flicker and shift to a power conservation mode, displaying only in dim black and white and his external lights go out completely. The feedback from his nerves slows and then halts.

Genji is left sitting above Gibraltar in the dark, unable to move while his body cools itself. His breathing remains regulated and normal.

It's peaceful. Like sleep, but with his brain still in sluggish operation.

He wonders if Dr. Ziegler thinks he is ridiculous, to have trapped himself so thoroughly in a body that he hates. She had made it clear years ago that he had _options_. That the technology for physical reconstruction was only improving. That she had made a combat body in response to Genji's request and Commander Morrison's demands, but the form she had given him did not have to be considered complete. 

Genji had ignored her assurances and mocked them quietly in his mind. What would he need other than a combat body? His life was effectively over, all he thought about was his revenge. And when that revenge was stripped from him, he thought about very little in its place. _Not thinking_ became the challenge at which he best excelled.

_Now_. Now, he thinks a bit.

About big bodies and warm arms, and settling against another person with a familiarity and comfort that could only be achieved between those who had a certain understanding.

About being recognizable to his estranged brother; the gut wrenching certainty that Hanzo would deny a man made of synthetic fiber as having any relationship to him.

He wonders if he could have a mouth again. If he is being honest about the things he misses, that ranks even above his dick.

It takes five minutes for his body to cool down to where it will permit him to operate it once more, and he is tempted to override it again immediately, locking himself in a bodiless state more meditative than anything he can achieve with mental clarity he does not possess. But done repeatedly it will cause damage, and he won't inconvenience the doctor further.

Genji gets to his feet and watches two small figures, one brown and one white, leaving the base. Dr. Ziegler and McCree catching up, as they do whenever they get a chance. 

His arm is fully repaired. He should go talk to Hanzo. Just get it out of the way. 

Instead he climbs all over the Watchpoint; up towers, down cliff sides. He sits on a rock in the surf, where frigid water crashes against a dangling foot. He can't stay still for long. The buzzing in his head catches up to him, clouding him, suffocating. 

He returns to the base and plugs into a VR game in Overwatch's rec room, but the dizzying brightness of the colors, the altered out-of-body sensation that always comes with VR, disorients him and he flees within minutes. Back outside, back to running around in an attempt to keep ahead of his thoughts.

He summons his dragon once more to catch a break, but the peace does not last as long, and is overridden by a sense of guilt at being irresponsible. Dr. Ziegler may think he should take more ownership of his body, but he doubts she would still be as confident in that if she was aware of how much he wanted to push it toward breaking.

He circles the borders of the territory, setting a goal of _distance_ that would amount to _time_ , and when that takes hardly any time at all he explores old caves he had once hid out in. 

No more; McCree would never find him there.

And when he has finally exhausted every method of distraction he can think of that is not sleep, because sleep would never come to him now, and the buzzing still has not faded, he approaches door to Hanzo's cell.

Genji hovers outside it, not even sure Hanzo would be there. But the closer he gets the more his high tech, lightweight, better-than-human body feels like it is made of iron and rusting gears. Dying hydraulics won't bend his knees, and screws are wound so tight his hands are locked at his sides.

He tries to remember if he has ever felt this anxious. This uncertain of an outcome. Why was it easier to kill an old teacher than to tell his brother he is the one who had done it?

From his right there is a creek of protesting metal and he believes for a moment it his clockwork body giving out.

"What's shakin', pardner?"

Genji jerks his head sharply to the side, only now noticing McCree is in the little office near the cells. The one he has been using for his investigation into the Kokan-kai. His bushy eyebrows rise at Genji's obvious shock, and he rears a hand to scratch under his hat. "Everything alright?"

It had not been long ago that Genji would hesitate, walk away, or at least put up the pretense of not wanting McCree's comfort. Out of a mixture of pride and consideration he would not do what he does now, which is walk into the small room and close the door behind him.

"Everything's fine." He lies. The buzzing in his head has only increased, but at least his body obeys him once more. He slips between McCree and the desk, sitting unapologetically on a mess of open folders scattered across the surface. "How did dinner with the doctor go?"

McCree leans back in his seat with a shadow of a grin. "Aw, you know her. She's feeling a lot better after getting a shot at chewing me out." The smile fades into inquiry, he scratches at the side of his jaw with big, stubby fingers. "You told her about Hanzo."

Genji's shoulders hunch and his gaze drifts down. The buzzing makes it hard to hear anything beyond McCree's words and he idly toes the rim of the chair between McCree's spread knees. "Not very much. But I didn't like lying to her."

"Ah…" McCree adds, voice slow and full of uncertainty. "Well you know, she ah. She's real discrete, Angela. I don't think she'll, you know…"

Genji does not know, and McCree doesn't appear to either, from the jumble of his sentence. He looks up to see what has distracted the man, and finds McCree's eyes focused on Genji's foot.

_Oh_.

Oops.

Genji considers apologizing. Explaining that he had been distracted, not thinking. The chair was the only surface his foot could reach so he had put it there. 

But the wide-eyed, trapped look in McCree's eyes hints at a tempting vulnerability, so instead Genji lifts his foot and runs the toe from the inside of McCree's knee up toward his thigh.

The response is a slow unfolding across McCree's features; red blossoms up from his neck, fades under his beard, reappears dappling his cheeks. He does not tighten up but instead relaxes back like a man defeated. His right leg spreads to the side at Genji's touch, inviting. Genji curls the fingers of both hands over the edge of the desk. 

The _potential_ hits him in a heady wave. Drowning out the buzzing with a rush of certainty. He can see a plan of attack mapped across McCree's defenseless form without moving an inch. Hell, he could make the man writhe and moan without lifting a finger; he's done it before to men who cared for him less.

It is still strange to consider that McCree would want that, would _enjoy_ that. From a synthetic, too-cold touch. But it hadn't been so long that Genji has forgotten what lust looks like. What it means when a man opens his legs at a promiscuous touch.

"Darlin'." McCree closes his eyes, the blush settles into a deep red, almost painful. Genji wonders if it is humiliating, to want a cyborg.

But some people are into synthetics, and some are into humiliation, and Genji is realizing he's into a low and heartfelt drawl of _darlin'_.

"How is your neck feeling?" He says, and presses on the inside of McCree's leg until the chair rotates around. Once the American's back is to him, Genji reels him in, chair and all.

"Umm…" McCree's initial surprise at being spun fades as Genji's rubs a palm up the back of his thick neck. An immediate, pleased hum is earned with barely any effort at all. "You worrying about that?"

Genji digs his thumbs with a steady pressure at the top of McCree's spine and drags them up in no particular hurry. He can feel the muscle tensing, resisting him, and he waits it out. "Not worrying." After several seconds he feels the tight cords begin to relax in increments, like lining up pins in a lock. He carries the pressure higher until McCree is melting back into his hands, hat threatening to fall. Genji relocates it and to his own head. "But with all the stress I've brought you, maybe it is time I offered some relief."

There's a little catch in an otherwise smooth breath, and the Genji can just make out the cowboy's eyes fluttering shut. "Now I don't want you thinking you owe me nothing."

He does, though. Owe him a great deal. But he doesn't have to explain that. "You are not the only one who wants to be kind to a friend sometimes, partner."

McCree's eyes flicker open, a grin spills across his face. Genji can hear his his friend's blood quicken, feel it in the heat pulsing against his sensitive palms. Genji takes the weight of McCree's head into one hand, tilting it to the left, and forces his thumb in a slow sweep up the trapizius extending between shoulder and neck. He follows it to the base of the skull, then curls around to rub behind McCree's ear. The moan of quiet appreciation this elicits vibrates from Genji's fingertips straight down to parts of him that are long gone. 

"Alright, darlin'." The cowboy's drawl has elongated again, deepened until it's only a step above a whisper. "You can be real nice to me."

Genji hums in agreement. The buzzing in his head has faded, all Genji hears are McCree's heartbeats, breaths, and the little whines that escape his throat as Genji applies an iron pressure to thick cords of muscle that jerk and tremor under his touch. 

"That feels mighty fine." McCree rumbles, head rolling to the right as Genji shifts his attention to the other side. "Where'd you pick this up, anyway?"

"I took some classes." Genji's voice has also dropped, softened so as to not disturb. There is something hypnotic about this. More peaceful than scaling cliffs while trying to outrun his thoughts. "School was boring, but I could pay attention to an education that would get me laid."

The cowboy's smile stretches into a vast grin, lazy and wicked. "I-- _Oh, hun_." McCree is interrupted by his own gasp, and Genji chases it, bearing down on a solid knot until it quivers loose and McCree exhales. Groans. "Hell. Wish I'd met you ten years ago. Feel like you coulda taught me something."

Genji unfolds his right leg, slips it around the chair and under McCree's arm. The treads of his heel drag fabric as they scrape down the cowboy's stomach, until Genji's foot comes to rest in McCree's lap with the ball of his foot pressed against pliable inner thigh. The whole motion is slow and smooth and tracked by a rising breath from the cowboy that caps off with a laugh and moan that flutters like it's trapped in his throat.

"I can still teach you some things." Genji sweeps the heels of both hands up McCree's neck, fingers burying into his hair. 

"Shit," whispers McCree. It's been a long, long time since Genji's felt a body melt into his touch. "I reckon you can."

Genji stretches his arms past McCree's neck, tugging the chair flush up against his front. The cowboy is pleased and pliant; his head rolls against Genji's shoulder, giving him plenty of room to start unbuttoning McCree's shirt from the top down. He undoes three buttons before further attempts are halted by McCree's large hands engulfing his own. "Hang on." There's a rough texture in his voice that commands Genji's attention. "Come round front, sweetheart. I want to feel you."

Genji stills, curls his hands, and hesitates to withdraw. He has not truly _wanted_ this in eight years, and if he lets someone, _McCree_ touch him to no effect…

The idea is mortifying. He does not want his friend to feel as if Genji's own limitations were on him.

But McCree is tugging at his hands, burning kisses into his wrists, and Genji can feel that heat no less viscerally than any touch he'd invited ten years ago. It seems almost silly to even doubt. Had McCree ever failed to make him feel something? 

So in defiance of his mounting sense of trepidation, Genji presses his foot down on the chair between McCree's legs and deftly rotates around him. There is no more room in the chair, so he lands in McCree's lap and stretches his legs on either side, dangling them past the chair's arms. "Hello."

"Howdy." McCree's eagerness can be read in the width of his grin, and that combination smothers Genji's uncertainties. "You know, you look real fine in that hat."

Big hands are already on him, sliding down the smooth panels of Genji's sides in a slow press. "Is this what you're into, cowboy?" Genji tips the hat, rolls his weight where he sits, and resists the urge to laugh at himself. He feels on display and aches from that familiarity; like if makes the wrong move the mirror breaks and McCree realizes that machines playing at being sexy is only hilarious. 

But McCree doesn't laugh; he holds his breath for both of them. Genji can hear the cowboy's pulse spike, and feels the resulting warmth straining against McCree's jeans toward Genji's parted thighs. 

"Aw, hun." McCree's voice trembles somewhere between arousal and reverence. He swallows. Genji reaches out to palm the warm skin of McCree's neck. "Reckon I might be into everything you got."

The lights on Genji's body flicker and dim.

Genji is familiar with how sex with someone always makes you fall a little in love with them. But for this man and those words, he thinks he's fallen further than usual.

With no words of his own, Genji instead presses both hands to McCree's face, drags them down his neck, scruff tickling his synthetic skin. As he leans forward, McCree receives him with a crushing grip, until Genji is locked flush to his friend's broad chest. The cowboy hat is shoved askew as their foreheads knock together. Close enough to kiss. 

If only.

"You know, you kinda purr." McCree says, voice low and heavy as his hand presses all the way down Genji's spine. 

"Um." It's delightful; how distracting McCree's touch is. "What?"

"Like an engine." McCree elaborates. 

Oh. That made a certain kind of sense. Most of his body's whirling parts are buried in the torso, replacing his organs with mechanisms that regulated breathing, moved and filtered of various fluids, generated and stored power.

"It's real quiet most of the time." McCree explores down his back in unhurried sweeps, stubby fingers tracing out each interlocking panel of CNT before moving onto the next. "Never really noticed it until lately." When Genji stretches against McCree, the cowboy's mismatched palms still to feel the synthetic muscle pull and relax. 

"And you like that?" Genji's own hands are still distracted with the textures of McCree's face. One finger glances over a chapped lip, so he is watching it when it stretches for a grin. Like the cowboy'd just been asked the perfect question, like he'd been waiting forever to answer it. 

"Darlin, I adore it." 

Genji wants to laugh, but nothing comes out. Instead he presses his palm across McCree's mouth so he might be able to stop the words that keep ripping holes into him, messy and deep as any six-shooter. "You're dangerous, my friend."

"I am a wanted man, you know." 

"You are wanted," Genji agrees. 

The hand did little to muffle the cowboy, but Genji can feel the damp warmth of his breath, the scratch of a freshly trimmed beard, and the flutter of dry lips. His hands have the most complex sensory inputs on his entire body. So he slips two fingers into McCree's sharp-shooting mouth and presses down on his honeyed tongue. 

One of the benefits of his cybernetic body is how easily he can track McCree's pulse. This close he can hear it clearly, but even if he could not, he feels its beat through the tongue that pushes up against his fingers. Sees it washing warmth across the cowboy's cheeks as the man sucks on Genji with only a hint of shame.

_God_ , he had missed this. This thrill of power. The short lived but undeniable pact of belonging.

McCree's hands are still on him, containing what feels like a unsteady vibration echoing out of Genji's core. What McCree had called a purr. He feels electric, _truly_ , and wonders if he isn't shocking his friend. His lights flick brighter and Genji has a vivid urge to shove his cowboy down onto a bed and ride him until McCree can't form any more words that will make his heart ache.

Genji begins to move his hips steadily at the same time McCree's hands reach his ass. One cool metal and one warm flesh, and Genji has never thought of his cybernetic body as being sensitive there, but McCree's touch on him seem to carry a charge that jolts through every nerve. He grinds down against the bulge under him, delighted when the cowboy adds his strength to the motion and Genji can feel the resulting shudder rip through McCree's muscular body.

A moan vibrates from McCree's throat to Genji's fingers, and he wants to hear those sounds undisturbed. He takes his hand back and goes to quick work opening McCree's iconic belt buckle. A shiver of pleasure strikes Genji as he realizes it's the first time he's gotten to remove it. 

McCree looks almost dizzy, like his brain is boiling in the heat of his own pulsing blood. But as soon as mouth is free he tugs on the scarf at the back of Genji's head and presses his lips to a soft patch of CNT on Genji's neck. 

Genji swears, McCree smiles. 

The zipper on McCree's pants is jerked down and Genji fishes his cock out. For a disoriented moment he's sure he has somehow _missed_ , or maybe McCree stuffs, because the burning weight he finds is too large for Genji to close his hand around it. 

He has to pull away from the kiss to look down between them, just to verify he is definitely looking at one of the top five largest dicks he's ever encountered. Swollen, dark, uncut. The soft skin slides under Genji's touch and McCree's uneven breath spills across the back of his head. 

"Wow," he murmurs, pressing his thumb over the tip and feeling McCree curl around him in response. "I've never been so mad I don't have an asshole anymore."

A bark of laughter escapes the cowboy, starting high and ending in a wheeze. Genji teases a slow jerk again and drags his other hand through McCree's hair so can watch the man's face. "Ohhh honey," he murmurs, drawl long and appreciative, smile crooked with want. "I think we'll manage alright."

"Desk." Genji responds, barely needing to consider the options. He'd had other ideas, until he saw McCree's cock. Now those will have to wait. "I want you on my back."

McCree's eyes light up, reflecting the green glint of Genji's visor, and he doesn't need more encouragement than that. Genji has only begun to slide off of the man when McCree takes them both out of the chair, leaving Genji only a moment to lean over the desk before the cowboy's massive frame is pressing him down against the creaking wood. 

The hat is finally dislodged, and rolls down to the office floor, unnoticed.

This position -- held down, McCree's heavy weight upon him, the intimate heat pressing against his ass and the backs of his thighs -- it's all so close to so many memories that Genji's brain helpfully fills in the gaps. Confused synapses fire off, informing him of the impossible, so that he can feel his own aching cock as clearly as if were dragging across the desk beneath him. He tries to gasp but can't, he curses instead; the words are strung out, weak, and laced with need.

McCree pins him at the ribs with hands that no longer seem too warm. Genji becomes aware of a faint, fast clicking as his metal plates vibrate against the wood. "Guess you can even be revved up." The soft mutter comes from just above his head. Petty and desperate, Genji reaches back, snags a handful of McCree's hair and pulls until the man groans and grinds against his ass. "God _damn_ , honey."

Genji notes that McCree _likes that_ and does it again, fixating on the harsh gasps that break against his neck as McCree is forced near. Genji's other hand grips the edge of the desk and McCree's metal one folds over it, holding so tight Genji couldn't move if he wanted.

"Come on," Genji challenges, spreading his thighs just the width of a finger. "If I can't get you inside of me, I still want to be able to feel it."

A hand runs down Genji's ass, between his legs, and Genji squeezes down on the fingers in a vice that makes McCree laugh and tug until Genji releases his hand. "Whatever you're made of is probably slick enough, but don't take my dick off, darlin'."

Pleased by the fond submission in that request, Genji releases McCree's hair and spreads opens his thighs a bit wider. "I like it attached."

Genji hears McCree spit, and grunt, and a moment later a warm pressure slides between Genji's legs. There is a curse and a outpouring of pet names. Genji tries to memorize each one, but his attention is on the warm cock shoving between his thighs. 

McCree doesn't _feel_ hard. Not to him. Not when Genji's own muscles can outperform iron with only a thought. He stays relaxed, letting the fibrous weave loosen into something McCree can thrust into. It requires almost nothing from him, to lie here and invite McCree to fuck him, but he can feel his cybernetics spinning faster anyway. Burning up like he is trying to summon a dragon. 

More pet names. Baby, sweetie pie, honey, doll, darlin darlin darlin. More chopped breathes trying to escape a barrel chest on each heavy motion. McCree begins to fuck him faster, and Genji spreads his legs a bit wider so he can join the motion, shoving back each time McCree moves into him.

It doesn't feel like it used to anymore, not really. The teasing ache of his phantom dick still distracts him, but there is no sense of peaking, nothing to chase after. His focus should be narrowing to single points of pleasure, pressure building up until he must burst. But instead he feels like he has faded into the cords and wires of his construction, observing and reveling in a dozen different engrossing experiences lighting up his sensors. From the pistoning pressure between his thighs to the heavy, offbeat smack of McCree's balls against his legs, and the jangle of spurs rising above the white noise of Genji's unwitting _purr_. There is the smell of sweat mixing with musty wood. And protests from the desk match pace with how his entire body jolts on every hard thrust, but both are not even half as fast as McCree's heartbeat, which Genji can pick out above even the moans and heaving breathes with ease.

Then there is the unavoidable pressure from above and behind and inside as he is _held down and fucked_ for the first time in eight years, by someone who so consistently overwhelms him that at times delight is indecipherable from being stabbed in the chest.

Genji loses track of his own pace and relaxes every part of himself except for his legs, which he squeezes around McCree's cock in easy pulses. He forgets to make any sound that isn't supplied automatically by his body, and rides out the wave of sensations. 

The come that McCree coats him with is pleasingly hot, and Genji rubs his thighs together as soon as McCree withdraws to feel the slickness of it. And when the cowboy collapses on him, uncomplaining of how uncomfortable his rigid metal edges must be, Genji can better hear the beats of their bodies. 

"You okay, hun?" McCree's voice is dry and hoarse. Words still have to be forced out past tired breaths. "You got real quiet. Er, kinda, your motor gets pretty loud." Genji hears him swallow, and the weight on his back shifts, decreases. "Boy, you're burning the hell up."

Genji reaches back with a slow, unrefined touch. He finds McCree's scruffy neck and walks his fingers up the scratchy texture until he can press his fingers against McCree's mouth. "Shhhh."

He feels the stretching smile, a bite of teeth at the pads of his fingers. A near voiceless whisper of "okay hun, you got it."

McCree withdraws. In his absence the small room's conditioned air seems near freezing, but soon Genji is dragged off the desk and into McCree's arms. Once booted feet have kicked up on the desk, the cowboy's large body makes an ideal platform for Genji to stretch across. Genji hums in satisfaction when McCree doesn't need to be told to keep touching him, and flexes under the rolling pass of a cool hand down his back. 

"Hell, you're still going, ain't ya?" McCree keeps his voice low enough that the rumble of it is almost a background noise. "You need me to, ah…" The soothing hand slips over his ass, between his legs, scrapes at his thighs but finds nothing that wasn't there before. "Guess I can't exactly finish you off."

Genji wants to sigh, he had given very simple instructions, but he can hear the concern lacing his friend's words. Probably he should bring himself down before his body regulated him back to normal parameters against his will, so he presses close to McCree, tries to memorize the warmth before he loses it, and initiates cooling procedures. 

The coolant cylinders in his shoulders, back, hips, and legs all eject simultaneously. A loud hiss obliterates any other sound, including whatever McCree says as he jolts in the chair beneath Genji. The room's temperature rises several degrees, probably, but Genji can't tell because fresh air is sucked into the cylinders, condensed, and locked away within him. Within moments his core temperature lowers and his head begins to clear.

"Ho-lee shit," McCree breathes above him, then laughs, and his tired words melt into each other. "I guess I shoulda figured you'd do that."

"Mmm," Genji sits up, energy returning fast, though he is in no hurry to go anywhere. He is pleased to discover his contented high has remained. "Even I didn't know I'd need to do that."

A heavy palm cups the side of Genji's neck. "You're good?" McCree asks, his voice is soft, and his eyelids are drooping, but the care is still clear. 

The urge to kiss him is incredible. The reminder that Genji cannot manages to pain him despite the genuine pleasure at everything that had just happened. Genji presses his fingertips to McCree's lips instead, tracing them back and forth. "Very good." It occurs to him that the buzzing is gone. "I think that is just what I needed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
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> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**


	11. Chapter 11

Hanzo waits for Genji behind the dojo, emptying arrow after arrow into barrels made of hay, until his arms burn and the moon has stopped providing him with light to practice by. He stops every fifteen minutes to send his brother a text, but the hours pass and Genji has not arrived, so he moves to the gazebo, and eventually to the dojo. 

He attempts to meditate and instead only prowls between old memories of Genji's insufferability, and fresh ones of the elders demanding he put a stop to it. As the leader. As the sign of a man who could do what his father could not. Proof Hanzo dearly needs because the list of things his father could do that Hanzo can not seems to be lengthening by the day.

But as the hours tick from late night to early morning his resolute plan to call his wayward brother to heel for his good as well as the good of the family cracks like ice left exposed.

At two past midnight Genji assures him via text that he is almost there, only to take another half hour to appear, meaning Hanzo's resentment has had plenty of time to settle in.

"You've been drinking," he regards, tone sour. Not that he is surprised, but it being expected makes it no less frustrating.

"Yeeep? Sure have." Genji grins, spreads his arms, crosses the dojo's bridge with a rolling gait, like a soldier on land, or a drunk on his liquor. He is carrying a plastic katana that Hanzo recognizes vaguely as a prize from the local arcade; it dangles loose in Genji's hand. "What's up, brother? You were really persistent tonight."

Hanzo takes a long breath, tries to exhale his anger, his _humiliation_. He gets to his feet. "Were you _trying_ to avoid me?"

Genji shrugs at him, an abashed motion that doesn't suit his unapologetic smile. "It usually works."

Ando-san is right; his brother does not respect him. Hanzo clenches his eyes. "This stops tonight, Genji."

"Uhmm?" Genji barely gets the question out over a yawn as he leans back against one of the large lanterns, spinning the sword like a baton between one hand and the other.

"I'm cutting off your allowance."

Genji fumbles his toy, snorts, and bends over to pick it up. "Hah. Okay. Sure."

"I am _serious_." Hanzo hisses, and grips his own forearms so he will not walk over there, take the toy and smack Genji with it. "Father is dead. I cannot afford for you to go around being such a--"

Genji's hands still, and he lifts his gaze to Hanzo's with a crooked grin. "...Haha. Yeah? Go on and say it."

Hanzo exhales and tells the truth. "Such an embarrassment."

"There. See?" Genji paces between the two large lanterns, the toy providing a constant idle distraction. Right to left, a flip, left to right. Hanzo's eyes track it while the rest of him is as still as Genji is fluid. "It's so much better when we're honest with each other."

His brother's pain is evident in how well Genji hides it. He is good at this, the light and airy tone. As if he is truly unconcerned with what others think. With what Hanzo thinks.

Hanzo scowls down at his crossed arms, forces them to relax, wishes for once his brother would put _anyone_ else first. His constant question of _what would father do_ is useless here. Father would let Genji have his way; to a man that powerful, Genji's antics had been a novelty, not a liability. 

"Damn it, Genji." He tries to contain his voice but it rises despite himself. He steps forward. "It does not have to be like this! I don't care what you do with your money-- certainly you aren't the first yakuza to enjoy a night life. But you _must_ honor your responsibilities to the family."

Genji's pacing halts, he stares down at the hilt of the toy sword as it twists between the palms of his hands. "How come?"

"...What?" 

His brother's voice had been quiet before, but it grows now. "You heard me. _Why_ , Hanzo?"

"Because that is what is right." Hanzo supplies, wary. He does not like the way Genji is not meeting his eyes, finally crosses the distance between them. "How drunk _are_ you?"

" _Right_?" Genji scoffs, looks up when he senses Hanzo's approach and dances back with a theatrical spread of his arms. "Come on, Hanzo, we're a bunch of criminals. We have to respect ourselves because nooo one else does."

Hanzo does not follow him, he folds his arms again, scowls. What has gotten into his brother? Is this what his so-called _friends_ have been leading him to think? "We have to look out for ourselves because no one else _will_." He clucks his tongue. "And when did your integrity climb so high? Certainly not while you were winning over all your _companions_ with the wealth of criminals."

Genji's brows furrow down, but he remains quiet. Winded by having a weak point struck. 

"This is why you are being cut off. If you want to drink then complete your jobs. Maybe you will appreciate what your family has given you more when you know exactly how many drinks a life buys."

He has finally soured Genji's inebriated high, it seems; his brother's glare turns petulant and hostile. 

For several moments, neither of them speaks. Hanzo has made his move and Genji's eyes dart rapidly as he searches for an escape. When he can find none, a pained expression crosses his features before being replaced with a wry smile. "Shit. I guess I'm gonna have to get a job."

Hanzo exhales, feels his shoulders drop by a fraction. He wants no part of this conversation, not really. He is tired of being the one to parent his younger brother. But it is dire that Genji get back on the correct path if Hanzo is to lead the clan.

"You can have your choice of them, really. I suppose you'll want to work in entertainment."

"Sounds fun, but kinda ambitious for someone with an empty resume."

Hanzo blinks, tilts his head. Genji is not looking at him again, tone light as he plays with that infernal toy sword. His stomach churns, abruptly sure this is a trap but with no idea of what to do other than spring it. "You hardly need to pass an interview."

The sword spins, Genji's voice wanders. "Tachi-san loves me though, I bet he'd give me a spot at his bar. Always thought bartending looked fun."

Hanzo quickly flips through his knowledge of bars owned by the Shimada-gumi, he hardly has them all committed to memory but he is still certain none are managed by a Tachi-san. "Genji…" He warns.

"And hell," Genji continues, speaking over him, pacing in circles now with the tip of the sword dragging on the tatami mat. "I don't _really_ need to waste much money on rent." He pauses to wink at Hanzo. "I hardly see my own bed anymore anyway."

Genji is being insufferably cheeky, but his implications freeze the blood in Hanzo's veins, and he has no doubt that is exactly the intention, which circles right around to lighting him with a scorching anger.

"You will not work for _someone else_. You are being told to be _accountable_ , Genji, not _leave!_ "

"Getting a job, a _legal_ one, taking care of myself." The sword flips, Genji smiles. "Sounds pretty accountable to me."

"No, you…" This is a dirty tactic, and Hanzo can feel its effectiveness. Genji cannot _leave_. That is not an option. "You are a part of this family, you may not leave."

Genji's jovial attitude sloughs off like ill fitting attire, the brutal shrewdness he hides underneath shows. Hanzo's heart sinks to see it directed at him. "C'mon Hanzo, that hasn't been true in a long time."

"It has _always_ been true," Hanzo grits his teeth. "No matter how much you run from it. You bear a dragon. You share my blood. We are Shimada. And I-"

_\--need you at my side_ , but the words catch on his common sense. If he needs someone so unwilling and unreliable, how can he be trusted to lead?

The hesitation isn't missed by his brother, and Genji barks a mean laugh, and thumps the toy sword against his shoulder, turning to leave. "Don't worry about it, brother. I'm sure the elders will be happy once I am gone. Tell them you exiled me, you'll look really cool."

" _Genji!_ " Hanzo's voice cracks, on anger or desperation Hanzo can't quite tell himself. It makes no difference. Everyone refers to Hanzo as the stubborn one, but it is only because they've never found cause to argue with Genji.

His brother is walking away, from his responsibilities, from the family, from him. Hanzo feels the foundation of his tentative leadership crumbling under his feet.

"No." He breathes, too soft to be heard.

Hanzo shuts his eyes, steels himself against an urge to tremble, and raises his voice to be heard to the entryway. "Tachi-san, was it? A local bar? That should not take long to find."

Across the shrine, Genji freezes. The low light glints off the plastic sparkle of the fake blade.

"It would not hurt to have a few more local businesses."

It's obvious when Genji's broad shoulders tighten by the swell in his silhouette. "Hanzo…" Genji turns just enough to look over his shoulder, but Hanzo does not need the low and sparking note in Genji's voice to know he's angered his brother. It is not difficult to do.

"Though, I would not want to trust one of our businesses to someone uninitiated, so Tachi-san may have to look for other work." Hanzo deliberately quirks his lips up, into a sharp smile. "Unless you would like to bring him into the family..?" 

Genji turns, stalks toward him, quiet and seething. He doesn't waste words attempting to call Hanzo's bluff; his brother also knows him well. 

Hanzo remains still, waiting for Genji to near, but every fiber of him quivers. It is not a matter of if Genji will strike, but when. So Hanzo continues in a cold, clipped tone, inviting it. "And if not him, there are dozens of others. How many of your lovers will still be endeared when not only have you stopped spending our fortune on them, but their involvement with you costs them their jobs? Their homes?"

Pain, fear, and fury break across his brother's face in turn, seeming to change with each step, coming faster until Genji is running at him. A furious shout coming behind a fist meant to break Hanzo's nose. The toy sword clatters to the ground. 

Hanzo turns the strike away, his own move as swift and efficient as Genji's is wild and energetic. Then he blocks the next, and the next; Genji only has the advantage with a sword. At hand-to-hand they are much more evenly matched, and Hanzo can often claim the victory through superior strategy. 

One punch slips by his guard, thrown with enough force that it might have broken a bone, and Hanzo darts back before it can connect, putting half a dozen paces between them.

Genji holds back, breath hot and uneven. He spits. "I can't believe you're involving my friends. Is being head really making you _that_ power crazy, asshole?"

" _You_ involved them!" Hanzo snaps, telling himself this will take forever if he waits for Genji's anger to exhaust him, so he goes on the attack. Genji isn't expecting it and loses ground. He leaves himself open and Hanzo smacks him across the face with an open palm; doing more damage to pride than body.

It works, Genji is stunned by the hit, or by the words. With his guard down Hanzo makes short work of his brother's footing, and Genji hits the mat with a miserable grunt. "By having _friends_? Fuck, Hanzo, you can't just hole up in the mansion forever."

Hanzo stands over him, features resolute. He can hear the blood coursing through his head and wishes it would still. "By putting them before us, you've made them an obstacle to the Shimada-gumi." He lets out an even breath; it feels like releasing steam. "As the head, I will remove our obstacles, Genji."

" _Our_ obstacles? Do you even listen to you?" Genji hisses, scowls, and Hanzo backs up to prepare for another round of attack. Genji flips to his feet, seems on the edge of saying something, swallows, and finally spits it out with a slanted smile. "So basically that makes you _my_ obstacle, na, boss?"

Hanzo looks away, clicks his tongue, and forces his gaze back on Genji. He brushes off the sting of Genji's words and falls into a defensive stance again. "If that is what it comes down to. You don't get to take full advantage of this family for twenty-five years and leave the moment it no longer suits you."

Instead of immediately attacking him, Genji turns away, shuffling his sandal under the edge of the toy sword and flipping it up and into his hands. He catches it as elegantly as the bokuto he often works with. 

"Pretty sure I've knocked off enough people for the clan that you can call it even," Genji's voice wanders toward thoughtful as he speaks. The hilt of the toy bounces between his hands. 

For a moment, Hanzo feels that his brother may give up. It is uncharacteristic, but Genji seems suddenly reluctant. When Genji instead turns toward him with the plastic sword held up as if it were a live weapon, Hanzo's lips quirk. "Are you _really_ going to try to fight me with a toy?"

"No," a bright green light sparks in Genji's eyes. A mist of the same color swells up from his back, engulfs his arm, stains the plastic sword in his hands. "I'm going to kick your ass with a dragon!"

It's very beautiful, summoning a dragon. Hanzo wastes a precious second appreciating it, recognizing it as the reason Genji cannot leave. 

Then the fear settles in, the sharp realization that Genji _will_ harm him, and that he is effectively defenseless. His eyes dart to his bow and his body follows. Genji cannot summon his dragon for long, Hanzo only needs to avoid the blade until then. He can hear his brother's footsteps behind him, sandals slapping on woven reeds. He relies on his senses to know when to jump, when to dive out of the way. 

Hanzo hits the mat dodging a blow aimed to take his arm, scrabbles for and claims his bow with one hand, an arrow with the other. There is no time to slow; he slams his hands onto the floor and executes an ungainly flip. 

Upside down, facing Genji, he realizes his brother is much closer on him than he thought. The electric green energy of the dragons is near blinding. He feels it lifting the hairs on his skin. Sees his brother slashing horizontally above him and thinks, with a distant reasoning, how from this angle it looks strangely like his brother is about to cut off his legs.

But they are not cut off. They are ripped.

The blade is dull, but the dragon's fangs are not. The force of the strike sends him sliding across the floor, blood trailing in an long and elegant arc as he twists and screams. 

It hurts like nothing ever has, but only after Hanzo realizes it has happened. For a weightless moment he only spins, watches the room turn, wonders how he was hit so hard. He stops when his skids, clattering, into the shrine that holds their family's oldest katana. He hopes he isn't bleeding on the sheath. 

He catches a look at his destroyed legs from the corner of his vision. Bone sticking out of raw meat with sickening streamers of disconnected skin. 

Hanzo looks away, his mind rebelling from acknowledging what has happened, deliriously insisting that there is still time to undo this.

Genji is staring at him. They lock confused gazes as Hanzo, halting, shoves himself to to sit up. It's strange sitting without feet, his balance is off.

His brother staggers toward him, one arm stretching out. Hanzo can hear nothing past a faint ringing in his ears but he sees Genji mouth his name. The regret and fear on his brother's face is obvious.

And strangely, that is what sparks Hanzo's fury. Once again, his little brother, the selfish fuck-up whose indulgences had to come before all else. Before his responsibilities, before his family, before Hanzo.

But he is the head now, he won't -- _can't_ be the selfish one bringing others down by clinging to what cannot be. The Shimada-gumi cannot afford that weakness. 

Hanzo nocks the arrow, draws, whispers the mantra he's spoken a hundred times, releases. Tunnel vision focuses his gaze on Genji, the rest of the world is dark and fading. Through a haze of blue flames, a shimmer of scales and teeth, he watches Genji's eyes widen; surprise, pain.

Genji had missed. Hanzo does not.

When the screaming starts it feels like the first sound Hanzo has heard in days. It enters through the ears but cuts into every inch of his spine. Hanzo recoils from it, scrambling for the darkness of blood loss, finding solace in the fleeting thought that at least he would not wake.

\------------------

"Hahaha! Okay, you guys're gonna love this, but you gotta make some space!"

Genji lifts his hands, ushering back a ring of young men and women, many of them as brightly colored as he is. In the background the busy evening streets of Ikebukuro divert around the small crowd like a river coursing around a stone. They deliver furtive glances, mouths whisper words that are not recorded, that the cluster of happy rebellious youths don't bother to listen to. The youths cheer Genji on, expand to give him room. The view closes in on Genji, the cambot focusing its attention on the star.

He is about twenty-four here, by Hanzo's recollection. His face had begun to take on some definition, baby fat finally burned off by his various enthusiasms. Dark roots show and his electric green hair has faded to a soft mint.

The lights are out for the evening, but sleep had been evasive, so Hanzo pours himself another cup of sake as the video plays for the third time. He had already been halfway through the bottle of sake before determining that he does not care if Blackwatch knows he is indulging in miserable nostalgia.

It had taken him a while to find this footage, and the handful of others he has dug up. In the year after Genji's death Hanzo had collected the significant quantity of snapshots his brother had left littered across social media. Dozens of videos of Genji and his ever present flock laughing in bars, on streets, in parks, arcades. And endless litany of crude inside jokes, touching, smiling, displays of physical prowess and strange hidden talents. The family is almost never present. Hanzo himself only appears in one. The one he has playing on loop now is his favorite, because a young Watanabe-kun guest stars. 

Being captured of course means he has no access to those archives, and so Hanzo has spent the better part of two hours running down the rabbits holes of the internet, following broken links and searching for names he barely remembers belonging to people he never met. In the end he only digs up five videos and a few dozen images. 

Back on the tablet's screen his brother scales the side of a building with ease, finding handholds in window sills, crumbling brick, small balconies. When he is high enough to lend some drama to his performance, he flips between one building and the next, pretending to narrowly catch himself. Several members of the audience shriek.

Hanzo scoffs; this ridiculous performance has gotten more endearing over the years. Moreso because he has come to realize that most of this group of friends has seen Genji's talents more than a few times themselves, and are only egging him on with their faux-concern.

Miraculously, Genji pulls through, swings himself onto balcony railing, then jumps to the next, and the next. He runs between ledges and rooftops. The faithfully following cambot captures each impressive show Genji's skill, which by this time in his life he used more to entertain his friends than for the family's business. Every few seconds the camera pans down to show the trailing audience, lagging behind busy streets prove to be a greater obstacle to them than no street is to Genji.

As Genji scales higher to another roof, a startled shriek rings out from below and really does put a temporary crimp in his routine as Genji looks down. The camera swings around to investigate the new distraction, and finds a nervous young man with a neon blue streak in his hair has been caught by a younger woman in well tailored business attire. 

Watanabe-kun's hair is cut short, buzzed underneath, an atypical enough look for a girl that she might seem to almost fit in with the crowd she has interrupted. But her dark and immaculate suit, soothing confidence, and the sheath of tattoos visible on her wrist as her sleeve slips down all separate her from Genji's brigade of friends. The small crowd gives her space, leaving the young man to try and pry his hand away from her iron grip, only to find that she releases him with obvious disinterest as he starts to whine. 

She looks up, makes a sharp gesture, and a moment later Genji drops next to her; directly onto the roof of a parked car. There is a loud crunch as the hood is dented, and the Watanabe frowns.

"Genji-san."

"That was a mean way to say hello, Rumiko-chan," Genji's chiding tone is theatrical, he bounces down from the roof of the car. Standing next to each other it's more obvious that Genji has a handful of years on her. 

"If you answered your phone I could have said hello hours ago," her response is dry and uncharmed, but also lacking any real spark of anger. Her attention shifts one by one across the faces of the strangers around her, challenging each with her gaze until the crowd gets the idea and disperses. They do not go far, but hover nearby in gossiping pairs and clusters. "Your brother wants you to return home."

Genji heaves a sigh, looks like he wants to protest, but as Watanabe pins him under her dissatisfied stare, he shrugs. "Making you find me was a dirty trick, but I guess that's how he plays."

She clicks her tongue, "Ignoring our calls for two days was a dirty trick."

Genji grins with no sign of apology, and squeezes her shoulder, then releases her as he backs away. "Okay, you win this time, Rumiko-chan. I'll head back." He spins toward his disorganized flock of friends, expression bright. "I'll have to see you guys later." And he sets one foot behind him, arms spread as he offers them a performance bow. 

Hanzo freezes on this image, sipping down his sake as he tries to identify an uncertain stirring in his gut every time this part of the video occurs. But the alcohol is dulling his wits, he can feel some memory just outside his grasp, and decides to figure it out later. The video plays on.

The crowd has now been distracted, and only a few of them clap for him, but Genji is already turning to bounce off, not even waiting for Watanabe. He shouts at her over his shoulder. "Pay for the car, will you?!"

Watanabe-kun watches him leave, and then turns back to the crowd of young adults. They don't seem concerned to have a strange yakuza among them, and begin to come together again, into a colorful collection non-conformity that makes passersbys uncomfortable. Watanabe-kun rolls her eyes, a quiet annoyance let on only once her master's back is turned, then scowls at the cambot that still buzzes around her. She looks offscreen at someone, and points a sharp finger at the bot. "Do you want me to break it? Turn it off!"

The video ends.

\--------------

Jesse's doesn't think much of it when Hanzo skips breakfast. In a way it feels like the obvious eventuality, and there's some comfort in that. He's been expecting Hanzo to be as prickly as a cactus, and seeing him make as if he was actually getting comfortable felt off. More than off, the displays that Hanzo might be falling into an easy routine had been almost unsettling. 

So Jesse gives the man space, and goes about his own day as normal. Halfway through his usual exercises Genji appears, making himself known by crouching between Jesse's shoulder blades while he is doing his damn best to make it through his sets of pushups.

" _Darlin'_ ," Jesse gasps, feeling his arms start to shake at the increase in weight. "You ain't _that_ light."

Genji laughs, a clear sound almost free of any mechanical echo. "C'mon, you can do it, partner."

Jesse groans, but forces himself through. His spine cracks pleasantly but every other part of him aches under the additional burden. He only manages five more pushups before collapsing onto the grass, well short of his usual goal. His reward is Genji sliding down to sit in front of him, fingers massaging through Jesse's sweaty hair.

"Still feeling real kind, I gather," Jesse murmurs.

"You're an easy guy to be kind to, Jesse McCree." Genji's voice is easy, comfortable, as if this is no different from their usual routine. It should be hard, for Jesse at least. It's been a while since he's been properly soft on anyone, and it's _never_ been like this, and he really oughta sweat the details a bit more. But he finds no room to fuss about it when suddenly Genji is the one closing distances like it's second nature.

He goddamn loves it. 

And it doesn't hurt, neither, that Reyes is off base and Jesse has a few days before he's gotta figure out how to break the news to the boss. 

When he's caught his breath, Jesse flips over onto his back with his eyes closed against the bright morning sky. The cool grass and chilly air against his warm frame got him feeling downright spoiled.

Without pausing Genji's touch moves from Jesse's scalp to his lips, which also seems mighty fine. Jesse contemplates the feel of Genji's fingertips on him. "You're doing that a lot."

"Do you mind it?"

"Nope."

Genji's hands have a slight texture to them; shallow nubs that feel like a soft silicon, spaced in even lines across the palm. They add just the slightest bit of rubbery catch. Jesse presses his lower lip against it. 

Genji says, "I can't kiss you." One finger pauses, pressed across Jesse's mouth. 

It seems like a non-sequitur at first, until Jesse thinks about the soft fascination in the touch; gestures not really _so_ different from the gentle exploration of a new lover. He smiles against the pad of Genji's finger, and Genji follows the curve up to the corner of his mouth. When Jesse just parts his lips to exhale there is a slight pressure against the edge of his teeth. He investigates it with the tip of his tongue, and gets a much better feel for the texture of Genji's hands as one finger rubs against the inside of his mouth. 

Just above him, in the quiet morning, Jesse can hear Genji's faint, ever present vibration pick up a notch. Jesse grins, with Genji's finger caught between his teeth at the knuckle. 

"I did not think I could do this anymore." Despite the apparent interest of his body, Genij's words are slow and calm, like he's only distantly aware of their positions. But then he also slips a second finger past Jesse's lips, just as persistent and curious as the first, so it isn't like he's inviting conversation. 

Which is fine by Jesse; he's happy to listen and still put his mouth to good use. He rubs his tongue against the two fingers, tasting the steel in the joints of Genji's hands more than anything, and makes a faint noise of inquiry. Genji continues, "Dr. Ziegler told me otherwise, of course. But I suppose… when I lost my body I wanted to accept having lost everything. To do otherwise felt… juvenile." 

Jesse feels the slightest prick of guilt. Some small sense of having failed in their friendship. Genji had mentioned his old exploits before, now and then, with a wistful or impish air. And Jesse'd always taken it taken it as some charming aspect of his friend's past. He'd accepted Genji's implicit sexlessness without a second thought, because how could a mechanical body be otherwise? A tragedy, sure, but there were other things in life.

Now he remembers that omnics and humans have been fucking for decades, that Jesse'd cracked more than his share of jokes at their expense, and that Genji isn't really an omnic anyhow.

He'd say something about it, but his mouth is occupied. Genji is the one to continue, "I guess now it feels more like giving up so easily was the childish thing."

Effectively forbidden from speaking, Jesse wraps an arm around Genji's waist instead. He tugs until the cyborg leans over him, one angular elbow digging into Jesse's shoulder. Genji's faceplate is as inscrutable as ever, but Jesse can tell from the close tilt of his head and the faint rumble coming from inside his metal frame that despite the self-criticism, his friend's mood is high. 

"Anyway," Genji continues, with a quick change of subject while he withdraws his fingers until it is just the now-slick pads on Jesse's lower lip. "I'm thinking of buying a strapon."

Jesse barks a laugh, part in surprise at the bold statement, part charmed by Genji's blatant change of topic, effectively daring Jesse to try and navigate back to Genji's rare moment of open self-reflection. 

But that was fine, it could wait. Jesse grins. "Jumping right back in the saddle, ain't yah?"

"Ohh, or a _saddle_ ," Genji chuckles, and wanders his wet fingers down Jesse's jaw, up behind his ear, leaving a trail that is chilled by the early fall air. "I've never ridden a cowboy before."

_Goddamn._

Jesse inhales hard through his nose, laughs to release some pressure, and wonders if he's really going to have any idea how to handle whatever it is he has with Genji now. "Holy hells, you're just trying to get under my skin now." He can feel heat rising on his cheeks, made all the more obvious when Genji presses his cool palm to the warmth.

"Maybe I should wear the saddle," Genji is easy and playful and remorseless. "Then I can be under more than just your skin."

The mental image hits hard and Jesse has a childish urge to hide his eyes, like some kind of flustered teenager that can't take a compliment. He grins anyway, unable to resent the pleased flush crawling down his neck. "You ain't gonna get any argument from me, darlin'. Sounds like you got all kinds of ideas."

Fingers in his hair, now, winding the locks in slow whorls. "I have been thinking about it a lot."

"You sleep?" Jesse knows Genji often doesn't. Sometimes when things are good, other times when things are bad.

"No," Genji admits. A slight shift in the tilt of his head suggests an averted gaze.

Jesse curls his metal fingers against Genji's side, stroking between the dark panels. "You talk to Hanzo?"

"No." 

Now he even sounds guilty. Jesse sighs.

Genji sits up, makes to pull away, but when Jesse doesn't loosen his grip the cyborg stretches across Jesse's chest instead. "I don't know what happens, if I tell him." 

"I got him to talk to me a bit. Told me his version of what went on between you two." Genji tightness up against him, but Jesse just keeps going, "You don't hear a lot of fellas talk about their past like that. There ain't no way he doesn't miss you."

Silence, as Genji slowly relaxes, but when he speaks his voice has taken on more of that mechanical echo. "He misses the brother he once had. I am not that person anymore." And when Jesse has no immediate response to that, Genji continues. "Right now he only hates Lightning. What if he begins to hate Genji?"

Jesse closes his eyes, pets up Genji's back.

His gut tells him that isn't how it'd go. That Hanzo didn't regret having murdered his own brother for however long only to spit in the face of the chance to see him again. But he doesn't really know the guy, or his life. Jesse doesn't much mind that Genji'd taken out the Shimada-gumi, but the leader that was so faithful to them that he'd even kill his own kin sure as hell might.

He lets out a slow, even breath, and offers the only honest comfort he can think of: "What if he doesn't?"

\----------------

Jesse's plan had been to leave Hanzo to his brother more or less from here on out. Feels like there's gotta be some kind of limit on his butting in. But even after needling Genji to talk to his brother, the cyborg insists nothing good will come of trying to talk to Hanzo while he's holed up. So naturally, after disentangling himself from Genji on the excuse of having work to do, Jesse goes to see if he can rouse the dragon.

He enters the jail with a package under one arm and a couple of sandwiches on a plate in the other, and nearly drops both when he hears the sound of gushing water out of Hanzo's cell. Burst pipe, most likely. He knew relying on the dirt old plumbing in here was going to bite him in the ass, and his first instinct is to wonder why the hell Pallas hadn't mentioned anything. 

"Hell," Jesse grumbles, rounding the corner expecting to find Hanzo trying to clog the leak.

Instead he's treated to a full spread; Hanzo nude, shimmering and bronze under the messy torrent of water that pours out of the open pipe acting as a showerhead.

Having seen Hanzo shirtless a dozen times somehow hasn't done nothing for preparing Jesse with seeing the yakuza boss clad in nothing but a thin sheen of water. Hanzo is all hard edges and tight skin, the only roundness on him comes from the tattoos that swirl over his arms, and down his left leg. 

That draws his eye the most; he'd gotten a hint of it before, but now, even as Hanzo turns toward him, Jesse can't help but let his gaze follow the green dragon whose tail curls above Hanzo's ass and winds down his left thigh, eventually disappearing into the prosthetic leg. Where the dragons on Hanzo's arms fly amid gold lines and clouds, the green dragon sinks into blue flames and silver arrows. 

Jesse's hit with the abrupt realization that this is all way more personal than he was expecting from bringing a man lunch. His guilty gaze finally jerks up to Hanzo's face, which is stuck somewhere between surprise and humored disbelief. 

Hanzo settles on a smirk, probably because he's figured out by now it always sets Jesse's spine straight. "Given your lack of subtlety, I actually expected this ploy much sooner."

Once again, Jesse wonders where the hell the prude Genji complained of went. 

"God _damn_ ," Jesse feels heat in his ears and ducks away from Hanzo's triumphant gaze, planting his back against the stone wall where he can't see into the cell even if he turns his head, and squeezes his eyes closed for good measure. "It ain't a ploy!" He raises his voice to carry over the sound of the running water and what sounds like a chuckle from Hanzo. "Just thought it sounded like the pipes down here had finally rot through."

The sound of water splashing unevenly on stone resumes, and Hanzo also lifts his voice to speak above it. "Oh, is that another thing I have to look forward to while locked down here?"

"You could just use the Blackwatch showers, now." Jesse says, but it's a sulky mumble that he doubts can be heard over the water. The image of Hanzo's perfectly sleek and painted body, gleaming against the miserable backdrop of grey rock, like a gold nugget in a cave, seems to be burned into his retinas. His brain swings on a pendulum between that titillating memory and the thought that there's a special place in hell for a man that sleeps with one brother then looks at the other.

Not to mention a special place for his ass at the end of Reyes' boot.

Jesse drops the package so that he can drag his hat over his eyes, and debates making a timely exit while Hanzo finishes his shower, because apparently being surprised by an audience doesn't give the man enough pause to cut it short.

Before he makes a decision, the water shuts off, and he hears the soft paff of Hanzo's synthetic feet and the rustle of a towel. Jesse scowls and takes a bite of his sandwich. 

After a minute, Hanzo appears by his elbow, Jesse isn't especially surprised to find he's only put on a towel, so that Jesse has to again tear his eyes away from a clean shine of exposed skin. Hanzo's damp hair is raked away from his face, looking almost slicked back; not-half dressed and caught in his birthday suit, Hanzo still exudes a casual confidence Jesse doesn't think he's ever managed without a gun in his hands.

"What brings you here, if not a ploy, McCree-kun?"

"Er," Jesse tries to keep his eyes on Hanzo's face and still somehow ignore the distracting curl of his lips. "Uh, brought you something." Jesse toes the edge of the box, sparing him from Hanzo's gaze when he looks down.

"Oh?" Hanzo bends over to get a look at the shipping address, figuring out it came from Japan. "More clothes for my indefinite stay?"

"Something like that." Jesse mumbles around a bite of his sandwich, leaning against the wall again to avoid the enticing expanse of Hanzo's shoulders. "Open it."

He hears a thoughtful hum from Hanzo, followed by the soft touch of knuckles grazing his forearm, before an open hand is held in front of him. "Are you carrying that knife, still?"

Jesse fishes out his pocket knife and plants it in Hanzo's palm. He eats more of his sandwich.

Hanzo doesn't take the package away into the cell, freeing Jesse from the confines of his nearness, instead he crouches over the box as he slices it open, providing a bird's eye view down the curve of his spine. Jesse's slower to look away this time, with a growing sense of despair. This ain't an accident, Hanzo's a god damn tease and knows it. Or maybe not a tease, maybe it was just outright temptation, and if Jesse reached out the man would press closer instead of pulling away.

He's not gonna touch, he already knows that. But the view is good and his self-restraint ain't _that_ good.

So he sighs and gets himself a cigarillo, feeling fumbling and awkward as he digs through his pockets while still holding the plate. Hopefully once Genji reveals himself to Hanzo this whole thing between Jesse and Jesse's friend-turned-lover's brother will clear up. Ideally without Jesse having to say much on it, since it's hard to imagine not fat-fisting that conversation. 

After unfolding several layers of pale tissue paper, Hanzo stands, pulling up the contents of the package which unfolds in his hands. Jesse catches the subtle widening of Hanzo's eyes, the smile that is a bit less sharp and shadowed by confusion, and despite Jesse's distractions he has to grin. Hanzo senses it and darts a suspicious frown at him. 

"Starting to get kinda chilly." Jesse explains. "Thought you could use something a little warmer if you're gonna be going out at night."

In Hanzo's hands is another kimono, but this one had cost him a prettier penny than the other three combined. It's a dark green silk, lined with wool to make it warm, and embroidered with a subtle pattern like cracking glass or naked branches that is only visible when the light catches the thread just right. 

The fabric is caught between Hanzo's thumb and forefinger, rubbed back and forth as he inspects the quality with a perplexed frown. "This was not cheap."

Jesse bows his head to light his cigarillo. "Aw, it ain't polite to ask about what a present cost, Shimada-san."

Hanzo reaches up and presses down McCree's wrist, lowering the flame before his cigarillo lights. "A 'present'?" The softness of Hanzo's murmur draws Jesse's gaze to the man's mouth, despite fact that his tone is eminent and precise, with only a faint note of inquiry at the end. 

"Er…"

"It isn't very professional, spending your organization's money on gifts for a prisoner."

"Um." Shit, Jesse can see the cogs turning behind Hanzo's dark eyes, reading him like he's yesterday's paper. 

Hanzo smiles, slow and almost disbelieving; scandalized on Jesse's behalf. " _No_. You used your own money on this?" Jesse doesn't think of a lie slick enough, and Hanzo laughs. Jesse flashes back to a cyborg's cool arms around his neck, whispering happily in his ear, and thinks he gets why that sound can send Genji over the moon. 

"Look, I uh--" Jesse chews on the end of cigarillo, is distracted by the faint pressure of Hanzo's fingers still on his wrist. He considers just turning around and walking out clutching whatever dignity he's got left, and wonders if an exit can still be called strategic if it's really just him running away from a man who's had his number since day one. 

But Hanzo is watching him with a curious pleasure, waiting to see what the cowboy pulls out from under his hat, only Jesse can't find anything but the truth: "Just felt kinda, yanno, like I owed ya a kindness. After the other night."

It's not what Hanzo was expecting, and the flirtatious smile folds into a moment of unguarded confusion, soon replaced by a more reserved look of uncertainty. "Is that so."

It's like a bubble's popped, and Jesse can only guess that just the memory of _talking_ about Genji sets the man back, which really makes him wonder how the hell finding out who Lightning is will go, but Hanzo's air of predatory charm evaporates. He releases Jesse's wrist, returns the knife, folds the kimono while frowning down at the fabric.

He can't even tell yet if Hanzo's upset now, or offended, but Jesse at least can breathe a little easier. He shudders a little at being free of Hanzo's attention, mentally curses himself for the regret being about even with the relief. 

"It is a well chosen gift," Hanzo finally says, the kimono folded and held against his chest. He reaches up to pluck the cigarillo from Jesse's lips as he tries to light it again. "Thank you."

"Sure, uh, Shimada-san…" Jesse stumbles, caught unexpectedly between the honest thanks and the just confusing choice to steal his smoke. "You. Er, wanna smoke?"

"I want you to not curdle the fabric with that stench." Hanzo doesn't return the cigarillo, taking it with him as he turns and heads back into his cell. "If you want to smoke you can have one of mine."

Hanzo walking away is the last thing he needs, cutting the final wire wrapped around his lungs. He reminds himself the air around him isn't _really_ cooler just because the man walked out of it. "Like those smell so much better." He mutters, just shoving the first words he can out of his mouth.

"They do." Hanzo assures, and methodically adds the kimono to his careful stacks of wardrobe. Jesse realizes the Hanzo needs a chest or something with drawers to keep his stuff in. Makes a mental note to look into it. 

Hanzo sets the cigarillo down on the edge of the sink and tosses an open pack of cigarettes at Jesse, he fumbles the catch with a surprised curse, pins them against his chest, and decides to set down the one-and-half eaten sandwiches before he just drops them.

He doesn't really like Hanzo's fancy cigarettes, he can barely feel _or_ taste them, and they burn down too fast. Waste of money, in his head. If he's going to give himself lung cancer it'll be on something that packs a punch. But when he looks up to toss the pack back, Hanzo has already started stripping off his towel to get dressed and Jesse decides he's mighty interested in taking his time lighting up a smoke afterall. 

"How're you doing otherwise, Shimada-san?" He asks, after the cigarette is lit, once again focusing his gaze into the storage cell across the way.

"As an unwilling prisoner?" Hanzo scoffs, though his voice contains only a small bite of derision. "I am on my last bottle of sake."

" _On_ it? You drinking already?" Jesse doesn't quite keep the surprise out of his voice. Hanzo hadn't seemed _drunk_ but he supposes it explains some things anyway.

"I am drinking _still_." 

Jesse contains a sigh, knowing they were going to need to cut the man off at some point, and not looking forward to that conversation. He's not really the one fit to pull anyone outta their vices. "I'll see what I can rustle up. You get any sleep last night?"

"Does it matter? I have no responsibilities to attend, I will sleep when I am tired." The rustle of clothing stops, and when Jesse dares to peek into Hanzo's cell again, he finds the yakuza in pants and combing out his hair. Now that he's looking for it, Jesse also spots the near empty bottle of sake by Hanzo's cot.

"Guess not," Hanzo doesn't look up at him, and it feels like the warmth of whatever had been burning between them has blown out. He senses Hanzo wants him to leave, but lingers anyway. "Just thought it was a little odd, when you didn't show up to shoot your arrows."

"I will practice later." There is a pause while he works a tangle out of his hair, tiny gestures that Jesse finds mesmerizing, and Hanzo continues in an absent mutter Jesse almost doesn't catch, "I didn't feel like dealing with the cyborg's temperament today."

Huh. Jesse wonders how much of that is the truth, Hanzo and Genji seem to almost be having fun when Jesse watches them. It's part of why he's amazed the truth hasn't come out yet. "He giving you trouble?"

Hanzo's brows draw down into a hard frown, edged in puzzlement. The silence holds long enough that Jesse is sure he won't get an answer. And when Hanzo does open his mouth, it's in dismissal. "I will practice later, alone. Good afternoon, McCree-kun."

Jesse accepts the polite order to butt out with a tip of his hat that Hanzo doesn't see. "Alright, afternoon, Shimada-san." 

He waits until he's left the cells to sigh. Genji and Hanzo manage to avoid each other again, and he's getting more and more sure Hanzo's at least passively in on it. The man's too damn smart to not sense something is up, and too much of a drunk to actually want to find out what.

He idly wonders if Pallas would help him lock the two in a room if it comes down to it. But for the time being takes his one-and-half eaten PB&Bs to his makeshift office. Maybe he'd get lucky, manage to forget about Shimadas for a while and actually get some damn work done.

\-------------

Hanzo doesn't immediately know what has woken him, only that a sense of alarm races through his body, ripping him out of a deep but fitful sleep. Whatever dream plagued him, it is gone, leaving only a disoriented haze where he can remember nothing, and must operate on instinct. He sits up in a dizzying shot, looks for a weapon and finds an unbroken bottle; _where_ he is eludes him, but he knows that while his bow is nearby, his arrows are not, so the bottle will have to do. His body tells him it is night, but the cells are well lit, and Hanzo blinks until his eyes will focus on the synthetic man standing in cell's open door.

The tinny voice that comes to him sounds half-amused and unthreatening, "Wow, you were sleeping? That's not like you. I thought naps messed with your head."

His head certainly feels _messed with_. The impulse to see the cyborg as a threat flickers, and Hanzo puts the bottle down to press his palms against his eyes, takes even breaths while trying to twist a vice down on his racing heart. The world feels like it is coming back together in pieces, one pixel flickering to light at a time. He exhales as embarrassment wars with anger over being caught both unawares and unable to _get_ awares in short order. He can go days without sleep but sleeping at the wrong hour with alcohol in his blood is almost always a choice he regrets. 

"What." He finally clips the word out, dropping it off his tongue like it's as rotten as he feels. Hanzo lifts his eyes to glare at the cyborg, forcing himself to have some response to the situation until his brain catches up with it.

"You missed practice."

Hadn't the cowboy said the same thing yesterday? Today? His sense of time is still malfunctioning, but he is sure it was _said_. "Did you miss being shot at?" Hanzo's throat feels dry, and he reaches for his sake bottle only to find it too-light. Right, he's out. "Or just the chance to come at me?"

"Maybe both." The cyborg replies, with an air of humor. He holds up his hands, waggling synthetic fingers in a gesture that Hanzo finds disorienting in its youthful humanity. 

It takes Hanzo a moment to think past the gesture and notice what has changed. He lifts his eyebrows. "So you've been repaired, finally. I suppose you think you can give me a challenge again," Hanzo says as he gets to his feet, feeling sluggish and sore from his so-called rest. He had undressed to rest, and it occurs to him that this is also the second time today his captors have caught him in the nude, or near enough to it, and sighs as he pulls on his pants. The cyborg's eyes on him has no benefits. 

There is a subtle shift in the lightning, a brief flicker, and Hanzo frowns. His attention focuses on the cyborg, who has not returned Hanzo's casual barb. Lightning is staring at him; and Hanzo wonders, dubious, if he had been wrong about the cyborg's interests. "What is it?" 

"You… Huh." Hanzo tries to remember if he has heard Lightning trip on his words before. "You got a new tattoo."

It's reflexive to look down at his leg, though the inked dragon is again hidden. He had it put under his skin after Genji's death, and gotten no others since. _Would_ get no others until he brought honor to the Shimada-gumi in exchange for the blood he had spilled. Or, such had been his belief, once.

His gaze flickers back up to the cyborg, a warm suspicion rising inside of his gut. "I've had it for seven years."

"To commemorate your victory?" The biting words come out of a still cyborg, they sound like an honest question, not a bitter insult.

But it hardly matters, Hanzo has one moment of frozen disbelief before his temper flares. He darts across the cell, strikes at the cyborg and is blocked, once, twice, three times, but his rapid attacks pressure Lightning until his back clicks against the bars of the opposite cell. "You think I wanted a reminder of my _triumph_?"

When Lightning has no more room to lose, Hanzo's final strike cuts past the cyborg's guard. His hand closes automatically on the machine's throat, blunt fingers digging into the fibers that are effectively unbendable. It's little more than a performance; Hanzo can't hurt the cyborg this way. They both know it, and when the cyborg speaks again its tone is mechanical but even.

"What, then?"

"My greatest _mistake_." Hanzo sneers, if the cyborg wants to be deliberately obtuse, he can also play that game. "But perhaps a man who is more machine than not cannot understand regret."

There is a long moment of silence before the cyborg reaches up to close its hand around Hanzo's wrist with an iron grip, "So, you regret killing him?" 

Hanzo also tenses but does not withdraw; this machine cannot speak to him this way _and_ make him yield. 

"Every day." Hanzo feels his breath simmering inside of him, shuddering out of his lungs, warming his head until it is difficult to think. This entire line of questioning is off, he cannot place why. He feels dizzy. 

Hanzo hates the cyborg's unreadable face, too-still figure, mechanical voice. He hates that he can feel his own emotions boiling over but this thing's breathing remains artificially regulated. _Something_ is happening but there is so little to read from the cyborg's stillness, from its silence.

But as Hanzo watches, the lights on the cyborg's body flicker and dim. He does not know what to make of that either, and in a wave of uncertainty, releases Lightning.

"Let's spar," is the quiet response the cyborg finally offers. 

Hanzo steps back, wound tight, appraising him. The cyborg is technically taller, but backed up against the cell bars and with his lights out, he looks strangely small.

It feels cowardly, to let the cyborg run from a conflict it started. But Hanzo also wants space from whatever is causing the unease in his gut. And anyway, they communicate better with weapons. 

Hanzo's jaw feels wired shut, so he simply turns and returns to his cell to finish dressing. The cyborg waits for him, and Hanzo remains aware of its stare. He wonders if it is still thinking of his tattoo.

The cowboy's gift remains put away; Hanzo would rather it not get muddied or torn.

He also does not take his bow, curtly informing the cyborg they will be using swords instead, as they exit the cells.

"I thought you were going to give me a challenge?" There is a fakeness in the cyborg's light tone. He can't quite place how he has recognized it, but Hanzo is certain.

He feels no need to return it. "I want something else, now."

The cyborg smartly does not ask what.

\------------------

Outside, an early evening is settling. A thick cloud cover has made it dark enough that the courtyard's floodlights are already on, but the rain is so light it seems to float down to touch upon Hanzo's skin.

They retrieve a pair of bokuto and face off against each other, proper except that neither of them bows.

Hanzo moves first, quick, strong strikes, aiming to force the cyborg back much as he had earlier. It should not work; he is more than aware the cyborg is a powerful swordsman, he should have the advantage over Hanzo who has fallen behind in his practice. But just as before, the cyborg falls back; his movements are fluid, but receding. Hanzo does not make himself difficult to block, aiming for powerful attacks over clever ones, and the cracks blast between them again and again as Lightning catches each blow, then takes another step back to catch the next.

"I thought you wanted to spar?" Hanzo accuses. His voice comes out rusty, and he is surprised at how quickly his breath has begun to heave. 

The cyborg doesn't answer, only continues to fold before Hanzo, Lightning is nimble enough to avoid being backed into a wall, but for once does not have the spine or the heart to strike back. _This_ just days from the same man chasing Hanzo across the courtyard despite having one arm in a sling.

"Well?" Hanzo grates out, hoping his words connect with the force his sword cannot. "Is this not what you wanted?" His own steps are steady, broad, _open_ , but the cyborg does not come for him, does not try to turn the tide of the battle. "Is this not why you keep appearing before me?"

The rain is thickening, swelling in the air and falling in swollen drops. Hanzo notices his face is wet when water temporarily blurs his vision. A good opening that the cyborg again wastes. He wants to spit, and shouts instead, his voice the thunderclap in the storm. "Why did you destroy everything?!"

Why does the cyborg, who has defeated him again and again, always reveal himself a coward in the end? 

"Why kill them and not me?" Next time the cyborg blocks, Hanzo sweeps his bokuto around to drive its arm wide. It leaves him open, but that hardly matters when fighting a toothless opponent.

"Why _refuse_ to let me die?" His left hand goes for Lightning's face plate. The cyborg grabs for his wrist, but it is only a distraction; Hanzo closes the distance enough to trip up the cyborg, shoving him, bodily and inelegant, down onto the wet grass. 

It's actually quite easy, Hanzo is surprised by how light the cyborg is; no heavier than a child. 

Hanzo pins him with a knee in the elbow he had destroyed a week before, and the tip of his bokuto thrusting against the cyborg's neck.

The question that has been bothering him since he woke finally appears on his lips, gasped out between heaving breaths. "Why... did you think that tattoo was new?"

As Hanzo watches, the green light in the cyborg's visor dims and goes out. For the first time in their several encounters, he feels the man inside yield to him. It is that failing that gives Hanzo an unavoidable opening, and he must ask about what he has been unwilling to even think on for years. 

"Who are you?"

For several moments the only sound is Hanzo's breath; the soft rain does not quite make noise, but does muffle the rest of the world. The cyborg breathes under him, mechanical lungs unperturbed by Hanzo's weight. 

After half a dozen steady breaths, the visor slowly lights again. 

In a voice with only a faint echo, but strained and uncertain, the cyborg asks, "Do you wish your brother was alive?"

The words are familiar. Copied from the back of Hanzo's own mind. Hidden behind a thousand other thoughts, buried under everyday distractions. He feels them click into place like the tumbler in a lock before he hears them coming from the body beneath him.

They make perfect sense, but are absolutely meaningless.

"What if he's only half alive?" The cyborg keeps talking, rushing, like he's the one in pursuit now, chasing after Hanzo's unwilling epiphany. "What if he's more machine than man? Would you want to know?"

"No." The word slips out of Hanzo, unnoticed. Not in answer to the question but in denial of the reality. "My brother…" Is dead, burned alive by dragon's fire. "I held his ashes in my hands."

The answer surprises a laugh from the cyborg, and Hanzo latches onto it, dissects in his mind, examines the parts. The voice is all wrong, too deep. But the cadence? Was that right? He had heard the real thing only hours ago, but under the mask of bitterness he still cannot be sure. 

"Maybe you did," jokes the cyborg, the faux lightness in his tone again. "But are you sure it was all there?"

Hanzo feels his anger spark again, burning inside his already aching chest. Something about the morbid humor, laughing at the memory of receiving the lacquered box containing his brother's ashes, realizing then they had come in so quickly because Hanzo had done the work of the crematorium himself. Watanabe-san handing them to him with her back bowed low. 

"My brother is _dead_!" Hanzo drops the bokuto, he needs both hands to go for the cyborg's faceplate, pulling at its edges with his thick fingers, looking for a catch. "And if you wish to claim otherwise, you will prove it."

"Hanzo! Damn it--" The cyborg struggles. His right arm is well pinned, but he manages to grab one of Hanzo's hands and jerk it away from his mask. Hanzo does not resist, chasing instead a weak thrill of triumph. The cyborg's fingers curl tightly into his wrist, bruising muscle against bone. "There's nothing there for you to recognize."

Hanzo's brief hope that somehow, somehow this was all wrong, flickers and dies.

"Show me," he chokes out. 

The cyborg hesitates, then shakes his head. "I don't… I don't show people."

" _Show me!_ " A demand this time, too desperate to be a threat. His second attempt to rip off the visor is unrestrained and inefficient. The cyborg finally finds motivation to unseat Hanzo, and does so with an easy grace, pushing his shoulder and pulling on a thigh until Hanzo's back hits the wet ground. A wet chill immediately sinks through the cheap fabric. 

The pin does not last long, as Hanzo is not content to be tied down. He curses and shoves at the cyborg until it backs off, and Hanzo jerks to his feet, feeling haggard and hungover and desperately in need of a drink. His mind circles around ideas he can't seem to actually touch upon, and it is dizzying. 

"Show me, please." This time, an embarrassingly weak plea. He doesn't care. He has to see.

It's the begging that does it. The cyborg looks down, his already low lights flicker with uncertainty. He looks up, to the walls, as if contemplating escaping, and then shrugs with a roll of his shoulders that finally seems familiar. He lifts his hands to either side of his visor and removes the face plate with a depressurizing hiss. 

Hanzo expects, somehow, against all rational hope, to see his brother's face. Genji, twenty five years old, green hair, uncertain smile.

Instead he sees a rigid jaw with a dull glint and a perforated circle like a speaker where the mouth should be. The metal plate continues up to the half-gone nose where it replaces the missing septum. The black casing of the cyborg's skull continues down to just above patchy and broken eyebrows. And there, between forehead and cheekbones, is all that is left of Genji. Lashless and scarred eyes that give off the wrong color, burned skin that is red and distorted in streaks. All of him looking sallow and preserved; an experiment gone wrong and locked behind a green-lit metal door.

Though he searches for something, anything, Hanzo does not recognize him.

But he can not admit that. Not when it means putting one more pointless dagger into his brother's heart just so he can cling to his denials a moment longer. 

The cyborg is Genji. He does not need his brother's face to know that, not when a thousand other questions mark out a shape that has only one answer.

He cannot really feel the full weight of it yet, but the _start_ of it is already crushing his chest. When he speaks, it feels like a superhuman feat to move the air out of his lungs. 

"How?"

The cyborg is silent. Its posture; closed, dim, holds more expression than what is left of its face, and soon that is hidden away, back behind the mask. Lightning-- Genji, looks more familiar, more human, with it on. 

"Overwatch wanted me as an informant, and saved me." There's no Genji in the cyborg's voice now. So much emotion has been drained out he sounds like a computer in an old, dated sci-fi film. "Watanabe-san lied to you, to everyone, about my death."

He remembers it, a compact woman who looked ten years younger than she was, the first wrinkles he'd ever seen on her was her collapsing face as Hanzo explain how his brother had died. Hanzo connects the pieces, each one feels like it knits a cold wire through his guts. "You killed her."

The cyborg is still like a broken automaton. "I remember."

So does Hanzo. He recalls her head, nearly severed from her body, blood soaked rug, her daughter slowly kneeling in the doorway. His own miserable wish that if Overwatch wanted the Shimada-gumi's death so badly, they might at least deal with the dragon properly and cut off its head instead of hacking away from the tail up.

"Hanzo..."

He had always thought his failure was merely in protecting the family from the threats outside, but in fact he had been too optimistic. In trying to kill his brother, in failing to do so, he had created the destruction of the Shimada-gumi with his own hands.

" _Hanzo_." It's the pain in the plea that starts Hanzo out of his thoughts. The cyborg has not moved, but has shifted as _if_ to come closer, held back by whatever has been clinging to him all night. 

Rivulettes are running down the cyborg's sheening armor. Hanzo realizes they are both soaked. That his fingertips are shivering. 

"Was it about destroying the family?" He asks, surprised that the words are intelligible with how tight his throat is locked. "Or was it about destroying _me_?"

Now Genji shifts the other way, wanting to run, always looking for an escape, _that_ bodylanguage Hanzo will never forget. "You had destroyed me."

A pained bark breaks past the knot in Hanzo's throat, he thinks it is supposed to be a laugh. "So, we are even now?"

The cyborg says nothing, and Hanzo can imagine his expressions now, guilty, uncertain. Despite the words, there is no vindictiveness in that mechanical voice, though Hanzo would have almost preferred it. 

It is not just his fingers that are shaking.

He cannot do this. Cannot be here. He has nothing more to give in this situation but a miserable shell, certainly not forgiveness, certainly not gratitude.

He would take any escape offered, be it an open door or a sharp blade, but he is the prisoner here. Only one of them can leave.

"You are not the brother I knew," he makes himself hold the cyborg's gaze, says the words he knows will end this reunion. "I don't want to look at you."

It works. Hanzo watches the words hit like arrows; Genji locking, tensing under the assault, freezing to see if another attack would come, and then turning to leave. No clever words, no parting shots. He escapes over the courtyard wall.

As Hanzo watches the green lights streak, bob, and disappear, his chest clenches down as if in a vice. His lungs and heart both shudder in protest. He is sure that for the second time in one life he has made it so he will never see his brother again. But as before, there is no recalling a fired shot; he can't call out, he can't even get his brother's name past his lips.


	12. Chapter 12

It takes Hanzo somewhere between ten and twenty minutes to get out of the rain. He keeps pointing his body toward the door and gets lost in his mind between steps. Genji smirking, challenging him, Genji screaming in blue flames, Genji's funeral, Watanabe-san's funeral, Ando-san's funeral. Report after report of raided warehouses, meetings, storefronts. Tense conversations with business partners, pride turning to something only an euphemism apart from pleading. Eight years of feeling the tide swelling around the Shimada-gumi, each wave washing away more and more of everything his family had built over hundreds of years.

It's the need to drink that finally gets him inside. He goes to the room by the cells first, where the cowboy had kept the stash, but finds the man and sake absent, with only couple of cartons of cigarettes in the corner. He takes a pack, but does not bother to return to his cell for a lighter.

The kitchen, then. The cowboy keeps around some shitty American beer. He had not eaten much today so if he drank them quickly enough it might do. Medication for a body and mind in shock.

There are four cans of practically non-alcoholic alcohol in the fridge, and Hanzo is desperate enough that he is halfway through one before admitting this was absurd. Even if he managed to get a buzz it would not last long and he has no intention on being sober again in two hours.

He leans against the counter, half-empty can just barely held by his fingertips, and stares in the direction of the floor but sees nothing but a vague blur.

Genji is alive. Genji deliberately tore away everything Hanzo had in revenge. Genji will not let him die.

Genji is responsible for the destruction of their family, and Hanzo is responsible for Genji.

He lines up the facts, as if the correct methodological order will somehow create a bridge across the chasm cracking inside his chest.

There is no point in denying undeniable truths. Hanzo's pride may have little worth, now, but none-the-less he prides himself on his astute observations. He has adapted to being a failure as the clan head, accepted that he had been wrong to kill his brother, and does not claim he is not a drunk. Now he has new failures to accept, new ways in which countless lives would be better if he had never lived, or at least never inherited the Shimada-gumi.

He will just have to adapt again.

Does it even make any difference at this point? Perhaps the price of failure has diminishing returns, and there is no discernable difference between failing to protect your family from a threat and being the one who created that threat. The number of graves dotting the family cemetery is the same either way.

There is a puddle forming under him.

This isn't going to work. He has experienced enough miserable epiphanies to know they cannot be thought out of, only accepted. And he will need something far stronger than beer for that.

It is possible the cowboy is simply nowhere he can reach, but he checks the barracks first, and finds them half lit and empty except for the near fully dressed man passed out on a lower bunk. The cowboy has hung up his hat and kicked off his boots and bothered with nothing else. It's still too early in the evening for proper sleep, but he would find it believable that McCree-kun is the type to keep an odd schedule.

Hanzo grabs the cowboy by the front of his shirt and jerks him into a sitting position, and is almost pleased when before his eyes are even open McCree has still shoved the shining barrel of his ridiculous gun against the underside of Hanzo's chin. He may not be able to recognize his brother from a faceless cyborg, but he still has a good read on this man.

He is also almost disappointed when the trigger is not pulled.

McCree grunts and squints, forcing his eyes into focus, and cursing when he makes out Hanzo at the end of his gun. "Goddamn, honey." There's a confused warmth in the cowboy's voice, and Hanzo briefly considers just shoving him back down onto the mattress. But if he went that route the sex would be over soon enough and he would still be sober.

"Boy but you're a mess," the cowboy is lowering his weapon, words quiet like talking to a startled animal. "What's got you all wound up?"

The soft words, the slow movement of the gun, the genuine concern and complete lack of fear for a _prisoner_ who had just shook him out of a dead sleep all conspire to fray at Hanzo's last nerves. "I should take your _tongue_ as payment for all of the lies, _McCree-kun_ , but for now you are just going to get me something to drink."

The cowboy cracks an uncertain smile, "You had a chat with 'Lightning', I gather."

" _Lightning_ ," Hanzo spits the name out, releasing the cowboy when he struggles to right himself properly on the bed. "His name is not Lightning, and we hardly _talked_."

The cowboy rubs sleep out of his features and watches Hanzo, who turns away, feeling the soft scrutiny too closely. He feels like the string just after the arrow flies, quivering in place, humming with energy that did not get the chance to escape.

"You wanna tell me how it went, Shimada-san? If you broke my partner's arm again we're gonna have words." The low note in McCree's voice is easy, not quite a threat, not needing to be.

The question should not offend him, but it does, somehow. He feels his back go rigid. "Perhaps had either of you been honest from the _start_ his arm would not have been broken in the first place!"

There's a low guffaw, and a shuffling jangle as the cowboy begins to pull on his boots. "Alright, fair enough. So neither of ya are hurt, then?"

"We are both uninjured."

"That's all I wanted to know." A quiet sigh is heaved by the cowboy. "Gimme a tick."

Hanzo huffs out a quiet shiver and notices he has wrapped his arms around himself, that the quiver in him is at least in part from chill, that he is cold because he is drenched. For the first time since Genji revealed himself, thinks of his own condition, and realizes the cowboy is correct: he is a mess.

It hardly matters, he can't even stir up any shame at McCree seeing him in a frantic state. In eight years of drinking he's humiliated himself worse in front of people who mattered more. Why stop tonight?

"You will bring me what I need?" He tries to make it sound like an order, but instead his tone sinks into a miserable question. _Sulky_ , desperate. Nevermind, he _can_ still feel embarrassment.

"I got a better idea." The cowboy rises, and Hanzo shifts to half-face him. "Let's go get'cha something to drink. My favorite watering hole ain't that far out."

Hanzo frowns, having a difficult time processing this suggestion. Unhappiness has made his brain slow and stupid; the logistics don't seem to work, even accounting for the cowboy's ridiculous verbiage. "You mean leave this prison."

The cowboy is belting on his holster with an air that Hanzo assumes is not as casual as it appears. "The whole base."

Was this some show of pity? Hanzo's disquiet darkens further. "And what is your plan for when I kill you and escape?"

"Shimada-san," the silly hat is removed from the bedpost and planted on the cowboy's finger-combed hair. "What you really oughta be thinking 'bout is how it'll feel if you piss away your shot at patching things up with Genji."

"'Patching things up,'" Hanzo echoes, finding the words alien and ill-fitting on his tongue. He had not even thought about it. Just the notion curls a frozen noose around his his heart, squeezing it so that Hanzo can feel each struggling beat. "You must be joking." He feels like vomiting.

"You don't wanna?" Hanzo can't make out the cowboy's features, finding his vision blurry and dim as he tries to not do anything stupid like have a panic attack, but he hears the soft surprise in the voice.

Hanzo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; unable to contemplate _do I want to_ , and unable to arrange the words to explain why that is impossible. "Let's go."

There's a silence that stretches on too long, so that Hanzo starts to fear he will get lost in the tunnel vision darkening his mind, but then a shift of movement and a heavy and warm hand lands on his shoulder. Hanzo focuses on the grounding sensation.

"Sure thing. You, uh, wanna clean up? I mean, I don't mind, but..."

Hanzo grunts, irritated at himself for not dealing with this already. He does not want to clean up. He wants to immediately down four shots of anything and wait for the effect to set in. But it is going to be a long night and he will regret the wet clothes if he does not change.

Hanzo pulls away, finds that choosing a direction and moving toward it takes an inordinate amount of effort, but continues anyway.

"I will change. Find an umbrella, it is pouring outside."

"Sure thing, Shimada-san."

\---------------

Hanzo splashes his face with cold water, wrings his hair out in a towel, and changes into the warm kimono the cowboy had purchased. His other clothes and the used towel are dropped onto the floor in a wet heap. He does not bother to tie his hair up again, only detangles it with his fingers as he returns to the barracks.

Changing into dry clothes, making himself look at least passingly presentable, has some mild improvements on his mood. He does not feel any less like his self composure is crumbling in his hands, but at least that he has found the correct balance to keep most of the pieces from hitting the floor.

He finds the cowboy in the hallway, now in a fresh shirt and with an encapsulated umbrella in one hand.

"You are really going to do this?" Hanzo asks -- not because he disbelieves, the cowboy has convinced Hanzo that someone can be both incandescently irresponsible and somehow still capable -- but to start a conversation that is not about his brother. "If I escape, will someone finally fire you?"

The cowboy grins and opens a door Hanzo has never been through, at least not while conscious. A set of stairs ascend a steel-grey corridor. "Probably not, t'be honest. I'd get my hide tanned six ways til Sunday though. Don't take this wrong, Shimada-san, but you aren't exactly a big fish anymore."

So this really had all just be about Genji. He is tempted to ask, but feels the idea tightening his stomach; later, with several ounces of alcohol between him and his nerves. Instead he focuses his attention on the journey out of the base.

The stairway emerges into large storage room, where it rests nearly out of view behind racks of weapons and tactical equipment. Lockers line one wall, one of them reads J. McCree, but there is also Junkrat, Roadhog, G. Reyes. Other names Hanzo does not recognize. No G. Shimada, no Lightning.

The next exit leads them outdoors, where Hanzo is immediately glad for the warmer clothing. The rain has let up, some, but McCree still opens the umbrella with a pop and hands it to Hanzo, who holds it between them while investigating the outside of the base. It is a place with high walls and outdoor catwalks, taciturn but grandiose in how it is carved into the cliff slide and is expanded on with imposing concrete walls. Massive buildings look stout next to high, thin towers flowering in satellite dishes.

When he asks questions, McCree answers most of them. They are at the Gibraltar Watchpoint, which Hanzo had suspected since he was first allowed outdoors. Blackwatch's main headquarters is here, yes, mostly just what Hanzo had already seen. It had always been a pretty tight knit organization, and they were rarely all in one space enough to need anything more lavish. The rest of the base is mostly for Overwatch's research and administrative divisions. With Overwatch's popularity on the decline, so has gone its numbers, and the base has been understaffed the last few years.

"I'll introduce ya to some of the regulars later, if you want." The cowboy offers, while leading toward the compound's large outer walls.

Hanzo snorts. "As if I am a guest now?"

"Er," the cowboy trains off, rubs at his chin. "Well, you kinda are."

"Am I." Hanzo's voice is so dry it nearly parches his own throat. "Guests can leave."

"What do you think we're doing right now?"

It is not the same, obviously, but Hanzo bites back on an argument. It is still disorienting that they the cowboy appears to be making good on his offer. There is a small door on a large gate, and they pass through it without McCree needing any obvious security clearance other than his presence. Hanzo stays on edge until the door clicks shut behind him, and then sucks a thick, chilly breath in through his nose.

Outside.

More out of habit than anything, Hanzo checks their surroundings, determines possible weapons and flight paths. His hands are unbound, he is likely still within range of the AI that watches him, but by the time they reach the small lights dotting clusters of low buildings that he assumes to be their destination, he is sure he will be free of it. He knows about the cowboy's flashbangs, and could disable him if he does not underestimate him this time. Getting across the border would be a challenge, quite a bit of money was poured into tightening the security of Overwatch's main base back into it's heyday, and that also meant decreasing easy access to the small territory of Gibraltar.

But all he does is walk quietly forward, down the path, toward the lights. Genji is behind him. The cowboy is right; he has no intention of going far.

There would be other opportunities.

The cowboy's shoulder jostles his as they share the umbrella.

Hanzo tries to focus on the cool, rainy night. On being able to see the horizon for the first time in weeks, even if it is only a dim smudge between dark grey and darker grey. But his thoughts continue to be drawn to the pieces clicking into place. "You are very agreeable, now that the truth is out."

"I dunno, I think i'm pretty agreeable most of the time." The cowboy wanders into the rain as he focuses on taking out a cigarillo.

Hanzo clicks his tongue and lets him get wet. "This was your plan the entire time. You never wanted me as an informant, nor to apprehend me as a criminal."

"Eh, not sure I'd go that far, Shimada-san." Flame flickers across McCree's face, he lights his cigarillo and is quiet while taking the first long pull of it. "Figure it's more of a win-win either way. Just didn't think _not_ dealing with you was doing Genji any favors."

_Dealing_ with him. So that was why he was here, to be dealt with, as a cyst needing to be excised.

Who has he been to his brother for the last eight years?

Hanzo struggles to construct the proper perspective. In truth, he had never quite understood where he and Genji sat with each other. They loved each other, yes, inarguable. But the frustration Genji caused, _deliberately_ , had been boundless. Yet Hanzo had still assumed that his heart was always in the right place, that if given his freedoms he would still in time return to where he belonged.

It became obvious eight years ago that Hanzo had not understood his brother well at all. That his endless habitual calculations had failed with someone he should have known better than anyone. He could not even understand, or bring himself to admit or account for, the fact that Genji had never cared for their family the way Hanzo did.

It is not difficult to guess why Genji would want revenge. Or even why Genji would go after the family but fail to take Hanzo's life. Certainly Hanzo had invited that level of cruelty with his own actions.

"He should have simply forgotten about me, if he could not find the courage to kill me." Hanzo murmurs.

Beside him, the cowboy snorts, and Hanzo realizes he has almost forgotten the man is there, despite his spurs jangling with every step. "Pretty sure he's been trying that."

Has he been? Is that why the attacks had stopped?

After killing Watanabe-san had his brother lost his stomach for revenge, and turned toward his more habitual avoidance?

"You said you did not participate in operations against the Shimada? Or was that also a lie?"  
"Aw, look. I really haven't lied more than I had'ta." Hanzo waits, offering no restored faith, and the cowboy continues with a sigh. "I wasn't on the task force for it, was down in Central America a lot in those days. I think there was a bit of overlap, might'a taken down a few of your old suppliers. But I didn't even really meet Genji until 'bout three years back."

Three years, so one year after the attacks on the Shimada had ceased.

"How…" Hanzo begins, pauses, doubts. Wonders if he really wants the answer to that question. If it is better to talk at all or be left his silence. But it seems that whether he speaks or retreats into his mind, Genji is the unavoidable topic.

"How'd we become friends?" The cowboy guesses, incorrectly, but that is perhaps a safer path, and Hanzo lets him continue down it. "Dunno, I guess if I think about it, I was kinda bored. Got laid up getting my arm fixed," the cowboy lifts his prosthetic, catching rain in the palm, "and he was getting some modifications made or something. He seemed kinda lonesome and I didn't have anyone else to bother."

Lonesome, Hanzo rolls that word through his head, tries to apply it to his brother, finds it difficult to stick.

"He did not have other companions?"

"Nah, keeps to himself for the most part, then and now." McCree lets out breath of smoke, and continues when Hanzo does not take up the conversation. "Heard that used to be different."

Hanzo watches the dim red glow of the cowboy's cigarillo, the way bobs against the dark night, and focuses on that instead of the tinny ringing inside his brain every time they talk about Genji as if he alive. As if Hanzo will see him again, and they will talk once more.

It is difficult to focus on McCree's probing questions. He feels like he did in the first days after Genji had died; simultaneously trying to act as if his brother was dead and never to be seen again, yet unable to reconcile such an impossible idea with his world view. Now, again, proposed facts challenge what has long been inarguable truth, and Hanzo feels a schism within as a result.

Hanzo opens and closes his mouth, feels his throat tighten, knows it will not behave, and looks ahead at the road instead.

The cowboy does not push for more.

\--------------

Their destination turns out to be the first floor of a home, converted into a bar some time ago but still bearing the telltale signs of having been constructed to be residential. It has a small door, rare window, low ceilings, and awkwardly filled spaces. But the bar itself is high, varnished a deep and pleasant red, and made of real wood.

Hanzo finds the sight of it almost a balm on his spirit by itself, and selects a stool at the furthest end. The cowboy follows, favoring the bartender with a wave as she serves other customers.

The cowboy gives him introductions, to the place, to the woman, and his history here, in an easy drawl that unfolds into a soothing white noise. He'd been coming here since he was a kid; the legal drinking age in America twenty-one, a bit of trivia that always makes Hanzo snort, and so when he'd ended up at Gibraltar at seventeen suddenly he could get all the liquor he wanted.

"Had a real paycheck for the first time too. Burnt through probably ninety-percent of the first one here. Dalia wasn't too keen on me at the time, had me here until four in the morning cleaning up my own mess."

Hanzo lifts his eyebrows, he has no intention of making a mess, but if he does he will be sure to do it outside. "And you kept coming back?"

"He is a glutton for punishment," the bartender interjects in a fond tone. She is a thick woman only a hair shy of McCree in height, and though she gives Hanzo a critical once over for his foreign appearance, she ultimately grants him the same warm smile she shared with the cowboy. Apparently the American's company is valuable currency here.

"I have been thinking he must be," Hanzo finds that despite the ache, social niceties still come easily, and he forces a smile he thinks must pass as normal, or at least the bartender has the grace not to call him on it. Either will do, really.

Dalia and the cowboy exchange greetings, she makes no direct inquiries into why Hanzo is here, but her encouraging banter makes her suspicions obvious. McCree makes a show of ordering a fifth of her best whiskey, and though this lifts Dalia's eyebrows she brings out a square bottle and leaves them with water and shot glasses and their space.

"You are fond of her," Hanzo murmurs, opening the bottle without preamble. He fills both glasses, and downs his own shot immediately. The whiskey is smooth but its heavy flavor burns into his tongue like McCree's cigars. He pours and downs another.

"Known her a long time." McCree is watching him with a wary eye, Hanzo is annoyed to realize he is vigilant of the cowboy's judgement. "Don't put it down so quick it comes right back up."

Hanzo snorts, then pours a third first into his glass and then down his throat to make a point.

The cowboy chuckles, and downs his own. "Well, I ain't gonna make it a contest. One of us oughta be able to walk back. So, how many of those you gotta go through before you tell me what actually happened?"

Hanzo drinks his water to chase away the bite of the whiskey, "There is little to say. He trailed hints, I picked them up."

"Uh huh. So how come you two ain't, y'know, talking?"

Hanzo grimaces and scans down the bar, looking for something to occupy him other than words. He finds nothing: a television is on mute, newscasters discuss the year's climate adjustments in the captioning, there is an unused dartboard across the room, and the chatter from the dozen or so other patrons is made into an indiscernible hum that is in turn lost under the lively tune of a song Hanzo doesn't recognize.

When he makes the mistake of letting his gaze cross the cowboy's, he finds brown eyes still watching him with an unwavering scrutiny. He does not like this, feeling like a coward, but he cannot seem to think of any other options. "What is there to discuss?"

"Je _he_ sus, Shimada-san." Hanzo is not sure he's heard this tone of _derision_ from the cowboy before, and it sets his back straight now. "You can't tell me you ain't thought've a hundred things you wish you'd said in the last eight years."

Hanzo looks away, swallows, wishes the alcohol he can already feel hitting his gut would hit his head faster. He takes his fourth shot.

Next to him the cowboy lets out a heaving breath, and he can feel the man's presence shrink, as if deflated. "If you're gonna keep doing that, we better get some food in you," he says, turning attention down the bar where he shouts an order at Dalia. Hanzo wishes he could relax so easily, but a buzz of miserable energy keeps every muscle in his back pulled taught.

He replays the scene in his mind, and finds it already feels like something that had happened months ago. The details _should_ be etched into his memory, but instead his memory is full of dark gaps and uncertain smudges. How had he known? How long had he known? Genji had not even _admitted_ to being his brother, just lead Hanzo down the obvious trail, tail between his cybernetic legs, ever unable to be honest. But it feels like Hanzo had been just as guilty, as if his own thoughts had betrayed him, hidden themselves, kept him from realizing what should have been obvious.

Had he not dreamed of Genji wearing the cyborg's mask? Why had he dismissed that? Had he not read in Lightning a hundred indolent gestures he'd first learned from his irresponsible little brother? What of the the sudden respectful bow at the start of a match and the grandiose but charming one at the end, the teasing cocksure attention craving language, the fucking _prying at Hanzo's attractions_ , a fascination Genji had pursued for years until Hanzo had started to deny having an appreciation for anyone at all.

_Ah_ , and that reminds him, of a dangling thread he had left forgotten days ago, when _Lightning_ had changed the game by revealing an interest in Hanzo's life; the question of the relationship between his two over-invested captors.

The empty shot glass rocks upon the bar with Hanzo's finger spinning around the rim. Another piece clicks into place: the cowboy and the cyborg are fucking.

Hanzo laughs, first a quick hiccup of sound that he fights to keep down, then a thready chuckle when he gives into the humor; anything to feel something but nauseous discomfort.

It is not the first time that Hanzo has developed an interest in someone who had already made it into Genji's bed. It's much funnier now than it had been years ago.

"Er…" To his side, the cowboy watches him with a wary concern, and Hanzo snorts, looking away so that he doesn't lose control of his amusement entirely. "You wanna let me in on the joke, compadre?"

Hanzo decides that he does, he smiles, focusing on the tilting glass at his fingertip. "You and my brother, you're sleeping together?"

No immediate reply comes, and Hanzo is unable to resist a sly glance at McCree. His mud features have warmed, tan skin finally standing out from brown beard and eyes by the hot red flush climbing up underneath. Surprise turns to frustration when Hanzo smirks at him, and then sheepish embarrassment. The cowboy looks away first and tugs at the rim of his hat.

"Goddamn, you're shooting in the dark. But alright, you didn't miss."

" _Am I_ ," Hanzo lifts his eyebrows, pleased to notice that he is starting to feel the slight fog on his brain. It makes it easier to obscure some things, focus on the thoughts that bring him a reprieve from others. "As if I do not have ten years of experience to draw on." The cowboy dares to look his way again, his eyes focus on Hanzo's mouth, and he remembers that the cowboy likes his smile. It widens. "You are quite the piece of work. Exactly Genji's type, I suppose. Not satisfied by one Shimada?"

The cowboy curses under his breath, fumbles for his cigarillos, before remembering he can't light them up inside and takes a sip of whiskey instead. "I'm plenty satisfied. Look, don't get the wrong idea, Shimada-san. This thing with me and Genji only took off recently. I was gonna, yanno, was fixing to say something about it. Just not while the cat was still in the bag."

"Recently?" Hanzo scoffs. "You have known him for years." Had _anyone_ ever resisted Genji's charms for more than weeks at best? Or was he supposed to believe it had taken that long for a handsome, if scruffy, American to catch his brother's interest?

" _Recently_ ," The cowboy grumbles, as if offended at Hanzo's doubt. "Look, I know you're still thinking it's like it was before, but I told ya, Genji doesn't keep much company. Hell, the only reason we're as friendly as we are is 'cause I didn't let enough alone more times than I can count. "

_Lonesome_ , the cowboy had said. Which apparently meant not just keeping to himself, but keeping a distance, as well. Hanzo feels his mirth trickling off, once again presented with an image of Genji he cannot reconcile.

The answers are right there; Hanzo had nearly killed him, his brother is now reduced to small and unrecognizable patch of humanity. Of course his life would not be the same. His desires, personality, may also be irrefutably altered.

Images from the videos he'd binged on the night before flicker across his mind. Whatever brief pleasure he'd found in the cowboy's embarrassment flickers out.

He moves to pour himself a fresh shot but finds a large hand holding the bottle to the counter, and glares at its owner. "Would you like to serve?" He asks, already sounding tart.

"The bottle ain't going anywhere, Shimada-san." The cowboy rumbles, and Hanzo debates if he wants to lose dignity over fighting him on the matter. "Look, I know you're worried about him. Got it written all over you. So listen; he's doing okay lately. Hell of a lot better than three years ago, anyhow."

Hanzo looks away, wondering why he should feel so sullen that the cowboy can read his concern. It's certainly a change from seeing his brother's death wielded against him like a weapon. He draws in a slow lungful of air, and expels it over long seconds. His will to resist the current situation billows out of him with his breath.

The shot glass rolls between Hanzo's fingertips, he is lost to the point where every direction is equally meaningless. Fine, he may as well play this the cowboy's way.

"What does he want from me?"

"Aw, hun." The cowboy teases himself with his lighter, flicking it open and closed, revealing his agitation even as his drawl conveys an ease of body and mind. "You're gonna have to ask him that. But between you and me, I think you got a chance. Like, a miracle shot, something millions, _billions_ would've given just about anything for. Hell, you can't convince me you never wished for this. So you oughta think real hard about how to not waste it."

Hanzo sucks in a slow breath, chest pulled so tight that the air shudders all the way down. He closes his eyes. "You do not understand what you are suggesting."

There's a huff from the cowboy, Hanzo can sense his irritation gathering. "You wanna spell it out for me?"

_Can_ he spell it out? Is it something anyone else can even begin to understand? Hanzo doubts it, but he is too tired to think of anything but the truth. "...he killed many members of our family."

"The same guys that wanted him dead?" Yes, there is the cowboy's derision. As expected. "Not to be an asshole, Shimada-san but can ya really say they didn't have it coming?"

" _Yes!_ " The word comes out sharper, louder than he intended. Some of the closest patrons pause in their conversation. Hanzo lowers his voice but focuses the intensity as he turns to glare are the cowboy. " _I_ made that choice, no one else. The daughter of his last victim remains a loyal member of the family, I have known her since she was born. _Genji_ has!"

And she hates the omnic assassin with a cold passion Hanzo had never been able to develop. Who was he to tell her that she could now never have her revenge?

Hanzo shakes his head before the image of telling Watanabe-kun that her childhood friend had beheaded her mother can fully form. The rush of blood to his intoxicated brain is dizzying, and he looks away from McCree, scowls at nothing. "There are others, absent fathers, grandfathers, siblings. Not to mention the lives ruined otherwise, when we lost power, when other organizations started circling like carrion feeders." He sucks in a harsh breath, holds it, feels his anger lower to a simmer under the weight of his own words. Listing the reasons reconciliation is impossible only invites guilt that he had even wanted to consider it. "I cannot forgive him without betraying those left, and the memories of those who are not."

There is silence, and then the cowboy refills his shot glass. "So what're you thinking then? You pretend he's still dead?" Hanzo reaches for the glass but doesn't drink it, lost immediately in a gut clenching nausea at the idea of returning to his life as normal, forgetting his brother is still alive. McCree continues, unable to resist driving the nail in further; "Or maybe you finish off the job you started eight years ago?"

Hanzo feels himself still, almost against his will, like the cowboy's words have sapped some of his life. His angry resentment from moments ago has been snuffed out, and all he's left with is the cold reality of his situation. "You are saying that to offend me, but it would be the correct decision, as the clan head." Not just Genji, but himself as well; the way it should have ended eight years ago if not for the intervention of modern medicine. Rid the world of both of the men who had destroyed the legacy of the Shimada.

"Oh yeah? And how's that gonna work out for you _this time_?" There's a harsh crack in the cowboy's voice, but Hanzo can't seem to muster a sense of surprise at the American's continued investment. "Sorry for saying so, Shimada-san, but you seem to know all the correct decisions for everything except how to pull your head outta your own ass."

The cowboy is not wrong, but he feels too tired, too dulled and lulled by his fading sobriety, to be wounded by it. A lifetime of education, planning, practice, a flawless work ethic, unyielding dedication, and has never figured out how to be a good member of the family; not to his blood brother, not to the thousands who had dwindled to hundreds but were still his responsibility. Is there an answer he cannot see? Or had he simply misplayed his moves years ago, and is only just realizing he has no options left on the board. Cut down by the knight now or persist in running until every other piece is captured. It hardly matters, the king and the kingdom are lost.

A miserable ache swells in his chest, and he's surprised by a sudden prick against his eyes. He curses, he is not nearly drunk enough for _that_.

"Look, Shimada-"

"No," Hanzo interrupts him, forcing his voice to razor sharpness less it give way entirely. "You enjoy talking so much. Talk about something else."

At his side, the cowboy heaves a sigh that sounds truly regretful. But he follows orders.

The food arrives, Hanzo finds himself less able to produce a civil interaction and the bartender favors him with a more critical eye. But when she goes the cowboy reveals he has dozens of stories just waiting in the wings. A few are about Deadlock, more on Overwatch, and most are somewhere in between, snippets of personal histories, surprising encounters, lands foreign to a salt-of-the-earth American like himself.

Hanzo interjects where it is appropriate, but otherwise lets the cowboy's voice lull him as he drinks. He turns his thoughts toward what it might be like to ride a hoverbike along the rim of a canyon and away from what he will say when he sees his brother again.

\---------------

Genji does not go far. Not with his mind threatening to betray him and take his body with it. He manages to climb the rec yard wall and drop down on the other side, safely out of sight, before it begins to feel like too complicated a task to move his limbs. He folds down to sit in the few feet between the sheer cliff face and the concrete wall. He dims every light, lowers every sensitivity, and focuses on his ever even breaths.

He is not sure how long he stays like that.

Hanzo's voice echoes in his mind, words heartfelt beneath the chill tone. With the rain outside made nearly inaudible, everything inside himself is that much louder.

It is not the rejection that hurts so much as the truth it contains: _you are not the brother I knew._ And he is not, he has never tried to be, he abandoned being that person when there was no body left to hold him. He did things that person would find unforgivable even on his most rebellious of days. It is why he does not claim the name Shimada any longer; whether it was the better choice or not, he had abandoned all right to it when he bathed his blade again and again in the family's blood.

And now Hanzo knows; who he is, who he has become.

His brother knows what he _did_. The things he cannot undo or apologize for, that Hanzo will never fully recover from and which Genji has been slowly losing his grip on justifying to himself for years now.

Genji leans his head back until his skull casing clunks upon the concrete. He can sense a chill encasing and slipping down his body, even with his senses dulled. Aware of its existence like a cold night held behind a pane of glass.

Past choices have been bothering him more and more ever since he agreed to McCree's proposal to capture his brother. He did not examine it closely, of course he didn't. Why think about something today when it can be put off until the moment that his own decisions leave him paralyzed? Hasn't that worked so well in the past?

But as an agent of Overwatch, it had not been necessary to over think. It was justice, after all; plain, simple. Eradicate the family, be a hero. And though Genji can't remember ever feeling heroic he can remember feeling a vindictive satisfaction at seeing the spread of the Shimada-gumi recede, pulling back like tendrils of a withering weed. Knowing that as each arm disappeared, Hanzo would experience the loss with the same pain Genji felt in his phantom limbs.

So, furious, miserable, broken, and uninterested in seeking a future of his own, Genji had become the person who would destroy the dragon. And succeeded, with every connection to his previous life lost in the process.

Perhaps he should not even be thinking of Hanzo as his brother anymore.

But he had tried that. Managed it until the day Hanzo sought to end his life and Genji could not stop himself from saving it.

They are brothers, and will be to the end, even if that end comes at each other's hands.

And now his brother knows it all, and there are no excuses. The final blow was informing Hanzo that his own brother is the one who took the world from him. Revenge enacted over eight years in slow, exacting detail, finally completed long after Genji has lost the taste for it.

He wonders if this shamed, miserable ache is what Hanzo had felt, waking up in a hospital to be told he had succeeded in executing his own brother.

Once again he wishes to cry, or scream, or feel his heart race. If his body would respond to his anxieties, they might not seem so much like mere echoes of human emotion. A memory of a time where he cared enough to feel true sorrow. But as always his cybernetic senses leave him feeling out of synch with his own emotions. Even breath, optimum temperatures, not even a shudder from internal motors.

It is tempting to summon his dragon, draining himself beyond sensation, but it seems rude, to use her to escape a situation she had no part in making. She had not participated in the slaughter, and now knowing that she could have returned any time, he wonders if her absence was not disdain for his choice. The Shimada and the dragons are linked, after all. They have no business being turned on each other.

He wonders if Hanzo's had similar protests.

Eventually, his too-calm body slows the spiralling thoughts of his mind, leaving Genji feeling only depleted and apathetic. Hanzo knows, there's no undoing it now. Like always, Genji will respond to whatever comes of it, and likely fuck that up. Just like old times.

As Genji begins to debate if he might be able to sleep off his anxiety right where he sits, there is a click within his auditory sensors; an override that few people have access to. Genji prepares to ignore it regardless, until he is surprised by mild, faux-British tones; "Agent Genji?"

" _Pallas_?" Pallas doesn't contact him like this. In a moment he is sure there has been an emergency, that Hanzo, in his anger, has done something stupid. Something to take revenge. He sits up straight. "What happened?"

"Ah," the AI murmurs,. "Nothing to concern you, I apologize. I was establishing contact to… check on your situation."

Relief hits like a hard wind in his fragile state, Genji slumps back against the wall. Of course, Hanzo wouldn't go after McCree, and even if he did, McCree can take care of himself, and Pallas has eyes on everything. Or, he is supposed to, anyway. "My situation…? Shouldn't you have seen all that?"

"I did." Genji thinks Pallas sounds dismayed, it is hard to tell, it's not a tone he's heard from the AI before. "That's why I was inquiring."

"Oh."

"I wanted to know if you are alright."

"Uh… Hah. Yeah." He remembers the last time Pallas had asked if he was alright, finding the AI's concern unexpected, unneeded, uncanny. Now is not much different; apparently he is pathetic enough that even an AI will pity him.

Yet, in truth, he still feels grateful for the distraction. So maybe he is that pathetic. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks, Pallas."

Silence persists for several seconds, and Genji assumes the AI has been satisfied with the answer and left him alone. He lights his visor so that he can stare out into the rain, watching it run off of his gleaming CNT in thin sheets, forming rivers against the crook of his armored paneling.

"Would it make you feel better to know that I have determined a 76.41% chance that you will reconcile with your brother?"

Genji jerks, startled; by the voice, by the information, by the implications. " _Really?_ " He tries to consider it, shakes his head, laughs in a tepid voice. "You're full of it. There's no way you can measure that."

There is a moment's pause, and then in a tone abashed; "I only asked if it would make you feel better to hear."

Despite himself, a quiet humor shakes Genji's shoulders. Metal shoulderblades click against wall behind him. "So, what. You're offering to tell me sweet lies?"

"The number is a lie, but I have found humans listen better if I include numbers."

"It's because numbers are hard, but sound so official." Genji's response comes reflexively, his mind focused instead on the implication of Pallas' words. He pulls his knees up to his chest. A soft green glow pools around him, glimmering on every wet surface. "But you actually think it'll work out?"

"My thorough observation of you both leads me to that general conclusion."

Genji finds the idea foreign, awkward, almost uncomfortable. He has not been thinking about reconciliation, not really. Hanzo is the planner. Genji has never been able to set a goal further ahead than a few days, and often he could not even stick to those. Capturing Hanzo, bringing him in, _doing something about him_ had never been much of a plan, more of an agreement to put himself in a situation where his brother could no longer be ignored. Much as revealing his identity had not been an orchestrated step, merely an acknowledgement that it must happen,and that _something_ would come of it.

Eventually, if Genji continues to put himself in situations that demand action, he will take enough steps down a given path that he will be halfway to the end before he's realized which direction he has even been walking. And then, having committed so much, he'll keep going. No plans, just reactionary movement, until he finds his way to a world where the ghosts of his family and his past have been dealt with.

But even acknowledging that he has no idea what he is doing, it is difficult to imagine that this is what the path to reconciliation looks like.

"Why?" He asks, finally, unsure of how to feel about the AI's assurance.

There is an elongated silence from Pallas, and when he replies Genji gets the feeling the words are being chosen with care. "You have both made every attempt at achieving any other outcome, and been consistently unsuccessful."

If his breath could catch, it would. Instead he feels his shoulders tighten, locking him like a stone under the rain. When it occurs to him to respond at all, all he manages is a rough bark.

Where is the lie? They have failed to kill each other, succeeded in making the other want to die. Genji ignored Hanzo for years, and Hanzo had nearly a decade to mourn and move on. Yet here they still are, even when on the periphery of the other's life, unable to be ignored or forgotten or left to rest.

"So, you think we're going to fail into getting along?"

"Essentially."

Genji drops his forehead against his knees, smacks it several times, and laughs. "What the hell, you're probably right. At this point we've fucked up in just about every possible way. What else is left?"

"There are _some_ options," the AI responds with a note of reserved humor. "I wouldn't go looking for other routes of failure."

"But they come to me so naturally," Genji replies, automatic. All faux-cheer and sing-song.

He regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. Not because they are wrong, but self-derision is only appropriate to some audiences. Pallas doesn't deserve to hear Genji's cruelty, even when it's directed at himself.

"Agent--"

There it is, the careful note. The sound of someone who will not let his words slip by. Genji grasps for a new subject. The first thing to come to mind, a question he isn't sure he really wants the answer to; "What's Hanzo doing now?"

A pause, a sigh, but in the end, Pallas lets him evade. "He has gone for drinks with Agent McCree."

"Gone? Like…" Genji lifts his head, a cold dip settling in his stomach, icier than rain.

"Off base, yes. My disapproval was noted."

Genji is on his feet. "Can you restrain Hanzo when he's so far away?"

"I could possibly get a signal the nanobots, but it would be temporary, and I do not have eyes on him."

Genji swears, climbs up the wall, nearly slips down it a couple of times before he makes it to the top. "Hanzo could _kill_ him!"

"Do you suspect he will try?" The AI stays calm, but Genji has never heard him any other way.

"I…" Genji is not sure how to answer that. He does not so much trust his brother as have knowledge of his habits. Hanzo had never been quick to turn to fatal solutions, but then again, his brother had set a dragon upon him. And Genji had never worried about Hanzo threatening his friends until it happened.

At the least, Hanzo will try to escape. Nothing will stop him from returning to the family if he sees an opportunity. And if McCree puts up too much a fight his brother may not be benevolent.

He shakes his head, taking off across the top of the wall through the rain. A green streak in the rainy night. "I'm going to check on them. Dalia's?"

"Almost certainly."

"Thanks, Pal."

"Of course, Agent."

\-------------------

Jesse lets Hanzo get a few more shots in before he starts cutting the yakuza off, and is surprised when it doesn't start a fight. They both move on to beer while Jesse moves onto more risque stories, which Hanzo enjoys with a prim smirk that quickly degrades into hunched over, rousing howls if Jesse is willing to set himself up to be the butt of the joke.

Turns out that trade off isn't hard on him at all, and Jesse makes it several times. 

"And it got _stuck_? How?"

"Well, Shimada-san, I don't know if you've ever _seen_ one of those--"

"I remember the advertisements," Hanzo grins, leaning heavily on the bar as he idly sweeps crumbs together with the edge of a playing card he'd stolen from Jesse earlier on. Despite _definitely_ being drunker than a skunk, Hanzo's managed to stay almost immaculate; Jesse'd expected glasses to get knocked over and clothing to come loose, but the yakuza still looks ready for a red carpet.

"Yeah," For the umpteenth time tonight, he's glad Hanzo's gotten drunk enough to not pick up on how often Jesse almost loses the thread of conversation for staring. "Alright, well, you know that gel stuff? The goop?"

"Mmm hm?" Hanzo sounds casually interested, but fails to suppress a wicked grin. 

Drunk Hanzo smiles a lot. No friggin' wonder no one's staged an intervention yet.

"Okay so, this is one of the older models, remember? Anyway, the ads say it can do _anything_ but what they _don't_ tell you is once you set the shape it stays that way for a while."

The alcohol in Hanzo's system has slowed down his usual lightning fast realizations to where Jesse can watch them play across his face; thoughtful confusion blossoms toward surprise, which gives way to delight, and a grin that spreads so wide Hanzo bites his lower lip and looks away. " _No_ ," Hanzo's eyes dart back to Jesse's, tone becoming conspiratorial. "You made something you couldn't get back out?"

"Well I kinda... I didn't read the instructions, so..." Jesse kinda wishes could claim any _real_ humiliation here, but he made so many dumbass mistakes back in those days, this one hardly even ranks up there. He watches Hanzo's eyes widen in increments while he builds the suspense. "I put it in _then_ picked one of the defaults, and uhh.... The angle weren't quite right."

Hanzo throws his head back and laughs, and Jesse thanks his twenty-year-old self for being such a damn idiot.

"I should... I _should_ not find it hard to believe. That you would just--" another chortle he tries to muffle against his hand --"without even knowing how it works!"

"Look darlin'." Shit, shouldn't be saying darlin' to your actual darlin's brother, dumbass. Maybe he should cut down on the beer. He presses on like nothing has happened, "they ain't usually rocket science."

Hanzo shakes his head, calling no attention to Jesse's slip-a-the-tongue if he had noticed at all. His laughter has died down enough that he can drink again and sips on his glass, lifting a haughty eyebrow. "So what excuse did you give your commanding officer?"

"Are you kiddin'? I didn't tell him jack."

"Oh? I thought you had an... engagement the next day?" 

"I did," Jesse assures, wets his whistle, hopes the payoff will be worth it. He can feel a heat rising in his cheeks that he suspects isn't entirely the drink, but keeps his voice even and plays it straight anyhow. "And I sure as hell wasn't calling out for it. When you're only running a five man team, you don't just drop it down to four. People die that way." He has Thoroughly Sloshed Hanzo's undivided attention, a small o forms between his lips. Jesse takes the bar in pretty quick; patronage is dwindling, no one is paying them any special mind, but he leans in anyway so he can finish in a low voice. "Anyway, so that's the story of how I ended up raiding an illegal weapon's cache in a small unnamed country with an OmniGel dong stuck up my ass."

Hanzo's deep peals of laughter startle Dalia at the other end of the bar, and when Jesse catches her eye she sends him a knowing wink. He tries to remind himself that is bad, that means he's being obvious, that he's gotta nip this in the bud quick. 

But then he turns back to Hanzo, hunched, one arm wrapped against his shaking sides. He wipes tears away from his eyes and Jesse realizes he's going to need to need to start making up stories so he never runs out of ways to make Hanzo make that face.

But goddamn. It's so worth it.

Jesse grins along because he couldn't hardly not, and thinks about how he's felt more gay in the last week than the whole rest of his life put together.

\-----------------

They take turns with Dalia's tiny bathroom. Jesse is annoyed to realize he's already locked himself in before remembering he shouldn't be leaving Hanzo alone, and decides he's definitely had enough to drink. And when he zips up and steps out, he's alarmed to find the bar empty of the yazkua's presence. He wonders what the hell he should have expected and how far _could_ a drunk ninja get across Gibraltar in the rain anyway. Surely they'd pick him up at the border.

He yells at Dalia to put it on his tab, hustles out the door, and is halfway into the street before he notices the compact body leaning near the door, under the awning of the building, smoking a cigarette out of the rain.

Hanzo gives him a smug smile that does nothing to still Jesse's racing heart, but does light a warm annoyance in him at Hanzo playing him like that anyhow. The feeling mixes with a different kind of warmth, realizing it had just been play. 

"Goddamn," he stomps under the awning, pulling up along side the yakuza. "You gave me that heart attack on purpose."

"Maybe if you don't want heart attacks, you should be a better jailer." Hanzo holds the lighter out and slouches back against the building. No sign of his good humor from earlier, he puffs on his cigarette in sharp, agitated little drags.

Jesse sighs and shakes out a cigarillo. Lights up. "Seems to me like I'm doing okay so far, if my prisoners don't even wanna run off." 

Silence persists, Hanzo not rising to the bait. Jesse can the feel the yazkua's mood drop like a settling fog; chilly and blinding, something a man could get lost in.

"My brother is alive." Hanzo says, after several silent minutes. The statement sounds so mournful Jesse checks to see if Hanzo is crying, but all he sees is an empty frown, forgotten cigarette pinched at the corner of his mouth.

Jesse shifts a bit closer, until he can feel Hanzo's warmth just a finger's width away. It's sharply nostalgic; hadn't he gotten Genji talking about his family once in near the same spot? The same way? What if, in a year or so Hanzo's also one of the best friends he's ever known?

Thinking about it that way, it makes it easier to feel some real sympathy for the man beside him. "Look, Shimada-san. Do me a favor and forget about your fucked up family business for a sec." Next to him, Hanzo snorts. "Nah, here me out. You think about those guys all the time, I know you do. Put it on the shelf for five minutes. Can ya do that?"

Hanzo grumbles something in Japanese and when Jesse looks down he's being given a bleary glare for his efforts. "Can _you_ say whatever it is, whatever you want to say, and be half as patronizing?"

Jesse grins down at him. "Bless your heart, honey, I'll give it my best."

Hanzo rolls his eyes and stubs out his cigarette. Jesse continues. "Genji's alive. You happy about it?"

There isn't any way to describe Hanzo's reaction other than to call it a cringe, and the look that darts across his sharp features says _guilt_ all over. Jesse can see Hanzo caging up, and shakes his head. "Nah, c'mon. Are you?"

"It is not that simple." Hanzo retorts, staring into the wet street.

"Yeah it is. All you gotta say is yes or no."

Now Hanzo glares at him, turning to lean one hand on the wall, cursing him with a hurried whisper. "Listen, cowboy, complicated things. They--" Hanzo stumbles over his own words, trying to cobble them together past his drunkenness. He closes his eyes. " _It's complicated._ "

"If it's your family complicatin' matters, you ignore it." Jesse also turns, looms a little. But keeps his voice low and even. "Shelving that, remember? Five minutes. No family."

"I _am_ my family." From the look of pain stitched across Hanzo's face, Jesse might've just as well put a bullet in him.

Jesse heaves a slow breath, lets a little sympathy trickle into his voice; can't reach out, so it'd have to do. "Not for five minutes you ain't. Happy or not, Hanzo?"

For a moment Jesse thinks Hanzo's going to stomp off into the night, refuse to play along. But instead he wilts back against the wall, digs out a cigarette, then digs deeper for his lighter. Jesse retrieves it from his own pocket and holds it up, unlit, waits. Hanzo takes a long, deep breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and confesses. "I'm glad, of course."

Jesse flicks a flame to light and in the flickering glow notices that Hanzo's hand is shaking as he holds up the cigarette. He wonders if he'd stuck around for another eighteen years if the idea of breaking off from Deadlock would've fucked him up just as much.

"Okay, that's a good start." Now that he's noticed the shaking he sees it everywhere. A quiet shiver that runs through Hanzo, making a man who could probably break every bone in Jesse's body even drunk off his ass look small and unprotected. But getting him vulnerable's the whole idea, isn't it? Some fellas build up their walls so high and thick you batter a hole in em if you want anything to get in. "You wanna talk to him again?"

"I would not know what to say." Hanzo's reply is quiet and sullen and almost lost under the patter of rain.

"Maybe you can start with what you just told me."

" _Hah_." A bitter bark escapes Hanzo, something cracking in just a single sound. He presses a broad hand over his eyes. The sleeve of his kimono slips down, exposing the dragon on his arm. "Maybe. I don't know."

_Aw hell, he probably is gonna start crying._ Might be for the best, but Jesse's coming up to the end of his rope quick. Genji never cried. Couldn't. And what would he even do? Hanzo doesn't come off as much of a hugger.

But instead of sobs all that comes is a deep shivering breath, and Jesse can admit he's glad to hear Hanzo collect himself.

"I want the rest of that bottle."

That earns a chuckle, and Jesse pulls away from the wall, stubs his cigarillo out. "Alright, sure. We can take it back with us."

Hanzo doesn't look at him, nods, and Jesse moves around him to go inside. He lingers a few minutes, trusting the yakuza not to run off, hoping the whiskey will make the walk home a little easier on both of them.

Inside, Dalia is eager to tell him she thinks he's found a real catch this time.

\------------------

Genji sits in the dark, cross legged, all lights completely dimmed. The rain patters around him, running down his paneling, trying and failing to make him feel the cold. He has almost completely forgotten about it. He sits still with his palms pressed to the thin roof beneath him, focusing his attention on the auditory sensors in his hands and discerning the noises inside the bar.

It had taken him only a few minutes to reach the bar, and a quick peek through a window to realize Hanzo and McCree were still inside. Genji had frozen, then darted instinctively to the roof when the door was opened by a departing patron. Hanzo had to play his hand eventually, and most likely was only waiting for McCree to lower his guard. But despite considering it, Genji found he lacked the courage to walk in there himself -- especially like this, he had never been to Dalia's with his cyborg body just _exposed_ \-- so he hid on the roof instead. Eavesdropping causes him no shame, but a certain nervous energy thrums through him as he locates a space where he can best hear his brother and his friend. 

McCree is telling stories.

Familiar stories; Genji has heard most of them. Different words, same tone, some drawling ache for a place Genji has never been to but has begun to foster an attachment for born entirely out of the fondness in McCree's voice when he talks about it.

It takes him back -- to this bar, maybe even the same stools -- McCree distracting Genji from a dark impulse to curl up and disappear from the world by telling him about the time McCree and some members of the Bonewash gang got holed up in a little diner together during a sandstorm. _They real bad sometimes, take a layer of your skin off, worse'n sandpaper on your nethers if you get caught in it._ Jesse'd kept his tattoos covered, gun hidden, played up being a dumb kid. _Guess I was round abouts fourteen, so these old Bonewash guys, they just wanted to give me a bit of a scare_. McCree had played his part, made friends, stuck out the storm. Thought he was home free when one last strong wind hit him on the way out, revealing the gun at his back, and that got his new pals to asking questions. 

_Well, long story short, they figured out I was Deadlock, argued a bit about letting me go, and when I gathered things weren't gonna shake out in my favor I put a bullet in each of em._ He remembers Jesse finishing the story with a casual shrug and a distant look in his eye. _Got a nice bonus from the boss that week._

Now he tells it again, with Hanzo an avid listener. Genji had offered condolences, Hanzo claims he thinks McCree is stretching the truth. _At fourteen?_ , he can guess his brother's thinking, turning it over in his head. The Shimada started at fifteen, ritually. There is pride in that, especially for Hanzo, who can find a way to work pride into anything. He is sure that Hanzo would like to disregard the idea that McCree, with his rough and uneducated ways, was just a much a danger at a younger age.

Genji is torn between a soft fondness for them both, pleasantly surprised to catch them in the middle of such a mundane kindness as drinking and sharing stories, and a faint bitterness to recognize that McCree is following a well-worn pattern.

He knew this much about his friend, of course, that there is nothing about McCree's effortless distractions that is not the work of a craftsman. McCree is a talker or a listener at intervals, a holder or a hugger when it will get him where he wants to be. He tells stories to lower guards, gain entry into hearts. Genji had been a player long enough that he had recognized McCree as the same early in their relationship.

But knowing is not quite the same as seeing it in action, wielded expertly against his brother. Genji wonders if even Hanzo's heart can waver in the face of the cowboy's easy and practiced attention. 

It isn't as if Genji doubts that McCree cares for him, maybe even loves him. But, sitting in the rain on the rooftop, he realizes that the plan of attack that had worked so well on him has also been used dozens or hundreds of times on any number of marks. Perhaps it would claim his brother, as well. And even if not there would always be others. Those moments would never be exclusive to him.

It's been a long time since he's felt the pang of wanting something to belong to him and knowing it can't. He's almost glad it's returned. 

A burst of laughter from below distracts Genji from one heartache with another; Hanzo, howling loud enough Genji thinks he feels the vibration in his fingertips. It also hits his guts; a cold clench that holds him where he is even as the rest of him yearns to go join them. Carve out a space for himself, all forced confidence, like he had a hundred times before. Hadn't he learned long ago there is no good to come from hanging around on the outside? People will let you in if you invite yourself.

But he stays where he is. Cemented in place by a mix of awkward uncertainty and a voyeuristic thrill. He has been assuming McCree and his brother's relationship was more taciturn. But even drunk, would Hanzo laugh this readily for a stranger? Or was the openness a ploy? He has to know, so he stays, and listens.

When McCree moves on to stories of a more shameless nature, Genji is treated with the phantom feeling of a grin he cannot make. "Are you flirting with my brother, partner?" he murmurs, quiet enough to not disturb his own hearing. He wishes he could watch them, but if he got caught the most relaxing moment he's had all evening would be over. 

When McCree begins to tell Hanzo about his misadventures with an early OmniGel model, it is hard to not feel a _bit_ betrayed that he hasn't heard this story before. But harder to be very put out over it between his brother's drunken laughter and Genji's own. He contains the amusement silently; one hand clutches his side as if he can still get stitches, but his lights flicker on and off half a dozen times with each quiet chuckle.

By the time his laughter has dropped back down to manageable levels, Genji finds himself lying on the roof in a lazy stretch; even from up here, McCree's self-effacing stories and slow drawl disarm him.

" _Darlin',_ " he mimics the cowboy's offhanded delivery, half unable to believe he'd heard it. "You _are_ flirting. What a little slut."

More interesting still, Hanzo doesn't protest it; despite Genji having clear memories of his brother threatening to break bones over unwelcome advancements. Could Hanzo actually be flirting _back_? Genji has never had the chance to witness it himself, despite considerable efforts made years ago, so it is hard to be sure.

While Genji is still speculating, the pair below moves on. McCree needs to take a leak, Hanzo agrees. It's difficult to keep track of them once they leave their seats, but he knows if Hanzo is planning to make an escape, this is the ideal time.

Genji draws himself into a crouch, focuses on catching the sound of any of the building's doors or windows opening, and is not disappointed when he hears the front door open without any accompanying clomp of the local's heavy footfalls. He alights to the edge of the roof, waiting for Hanzo to step out into the street, and when seconds pass without Hanzo appearing, leans over the edge to see if his brother has escaped down an alley instead. He's over eager enough that he is nearly spotted; hanging his head in full view of the front of the building, where Hanzo cups his hands against a slight breeze to light a cigarette.

Hanzo isn't running.

Disoriented, Genji yanks himself out of sight again, just in time to hear McCree's boots pounding and jangling through the bar below. His friend makes the same mistake; runs out into the street before realizing Hanzo has gone no where, turns around to complain about the scare.

It isn't a very _good_ opportunity to escape, Genji reminds himself. Even drunk, Hanzo is sharp. Sharp enough to know when he is too inebriated to escape Gibraltar, much less get back to Japan without support or supplies. But Genji can't help but feel his insides churn anyway, almost nauseated on the hope that it _means something_ that granted any kind of opportunity to escape, Hanzo does not take it.

"My brother is alive." 

Genji almost doesn't catch it under the patter of the rain, the noise from inside the bar, and the thrumming within his own anxious body. But now he stretches out upon the roof, plants both of his palms against the thin sheet of awning, listens as hard as he can, afraid to miss a word.

It's surprising, somehow, to hear the stern force in McCree's voice as he drags Hanzo, unwilling, down paths of thought his brother finds so frightening. It is painful to the point of being funny to realize how, even after all these years and all this mess, his brother is so unable to disentangle himself from the Shimada-gumi.

When Hanzo whispers in furious heartbreak that _I am my family_ , Genji recalls wide brown eyes, open and unseeing, pale features framed by a sheen of fresh red blood; his former master's head lying askew from her folded over form.

Genji shoves the memory away; let what is in the past lie, there is no taking back that death. They will both just have to live with the pain of it.

McCree forces a confession out of Hanzo, but Genji half-misses it in his distraction. Did he mishear? Or had Hanzo really said he is glad Genji is alive?

He silently encourages McCree to ask again, make Hanzo say it while Genji is paying proper attention this time. But they go on. Hanzo's voice breaks when he admits he does not know what to say, and Genji feels a sympathetic echo in his chest. He can't even honestly apologize. Maybe Hanzo can't either. Maybe after enough time and enough hurt there is nothing to be said, and there are just brothers in the world who should not speak to each other.

But now that the _possibility_ of exchanging words instead of blows is so close for the first time in so long, he can at least admit to himself that he wants it. He wants to be able to join them at the bar, and laugh about stupid days gone by.

McCree retreats back into the bar to settle the tab and get Hanzo more to drink. 

And rather than let himself debate over it, find an excuse to stay cowardly hidden in the shadows longer, Genji flips nimbly off the roof, and lands in front of his brother. The lights on his body flicker on to a dim green.

Hanzo stares at him, dark eyes wide enough that Genji can catch a green reflection in the whites, cigarette pinched between two knuckles, mouth slacked slightly open. 

Genji realizes he still has not figured out what to say.

"Yo."

Confusion, chagrin, embarrassment all slip across Hanzo's features. He's always easy to read once you get him sloshed. Good to see that hasn't changed. It's also not really a surprise when all of those emotions lead to _annoyance_ , and that's the look he has settled on when he opens his mouth.

"Have--" The question changes into an indignant declaration mid-sentence. "You've been _spying_ on me."

Genji feels a mirthful flutter that does nothing to dissipate his anxious energy. He flicks a shuriken into his hand, curls it until he can feel it prick at his palm. "I thought you would try to escape."

Hanzo pinches his cigarette between his lips and his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "That is... that is such a _terrible idea_. You are both awful at escape plans."

"Drunks try stupid things all the time."

Hanzo tries to glare at him, but in his bleary state it comes off too unfocused to be threatening. " _I_ don't."

Genji realizes he is still standing in the rain when the water begins to pool in the hand clutching his shuriken, too tense to even bounce it around. He steps forward. Hanzo watches him like a wary cat. "Hang on, didn't you get drunk and summon your dragons over Hanamura once?" He muses, _feeling_ the falsehood in his faux-ease but going along with it anyway. "I think it made it into the local news..."

"That was not..." Hanzo's frown turns thoughtful, looking away as he accesses the memories. "No. _So did you!_ " Genji can't suppress a pleased, nervous laugh, and Hanzo continues on, pointing at him. "It was _your idea!_ "

Genji shrugs. Easy, casual, natural. " _I'm_ not the one saying I don't do dumb shit when I'm drunk."

" _Genji_." Hanzo exhales his name in pure exasperation; an exact collection of syllable and tone Genji's heard a hundred thousand times in his life, dating back from some of his youngest memories. But not once in the last eight years. His own name catches him like an arrow in the heart, and he can tell from the haunted look that startles across Hanzo's features that it's done much the same to him.

He waits for a few of his own too-steady heartbeats to pass.

"...Yeah, brother?"

Hanzo stares at him. Genji can read regret, pain, uncertainty. All strangely soft on his face, none of the hard lines and quivering fury from their fight earlier. 

McCree is arriving. Genji hears his distinct footsteps approaching the door, and can think of nothing else to say to Hanzo or a way to look away in that time. The door to the bar opens, and is held there by a startled and frozen McCree, a sad song in Italian croons just a bit louder.

"Ah... Howdy, pardner. Come to pick us up?" Hanzo breaks away at McCree's words, hunches his shoulders, takes a long drag on his cigarette. 

Genji lets Hanzo retreat and turns his focus toward McCree. "I came to check on you. ...A while ago." It's easier to put a bit of forced humor in his voice for his friend. "I can't believe you never told me that OmniDong story."

Even in the dark, Genji can catch a flush running up McCree's cheeks. He isn't sure if it's for the story itself or the realization Genji had been listening in on more than just old raunchy stories. He wishes he could don the knowing grin he wants to, but would have to settle for teasing his friend later.

"Aw that's not fair, I told you the other one. You ain't told me _any_ , and I bet you got more." It was a decent point, Genji hadn't wanted to visit many memories of his happy past, knowing those days were gone for good. But lately regaling McCree with the indisgressions and mishaps of his youth sounded much more appealing. 

"Okay," he agrees. "I owe you a few."

McCree grins at that, tentative and grateful, and Genji is struck with the sense McCree had been expecting something worse.

Before he can ask, Hanzo peels the more than half empty whiskey bottle from McCree's unresisting hand and walks away without a word. Leaving them both standing under the awning, watching Hanzo's uneven gait as he steps into the rain. He takes a swig once his back is turned to them.

Genji pauses, hesitates from going after him, he turns back to McCree instead, shifting so that he can keep Hanzo in his peripheral vision. "Is he really okay to have more?"

McCree is wrapping his serape around him tight for venturing into the rain, and shrugs under it. "Hell, what's the worse that's gonna happen? I've drank more over less."

"I guess I have, too." Genji nods, and again, without letting himself think about it, turns to go after his brother.

It stirs the same discomfort he used to feel when approaching his peers, back in the days when his tattoos and the name Shimada had kept him separate from everyone his own age. An uncertain hope mixed with a sharp fear. But he knows it gets easier if you don't stop trying.

So he closes the distance on his brother again, pulling up beside him when Hanzo stops and squints up into the cloudy night sky, scowling as water collects on his face. 

"I forgot the umbrella."

Unprepared, Genji laughs.

The noise startles Hanzo, who looks briefly at Genji, stiffens, and continues walking forward. "I don't _need_ it."

"Hanzo," Genji follows him step for step, "We can go back and get it."

"No, it's too far." 

"We've gone like ten steps."

"Aw hell," comes a tired drawl from behind. Genji looks over his shoulder to see McCree waving him off and heading back to the bar. When he looks back, Hanzo is taking another swig of the whiskey, and striding determinedly down the side of the road, back to Watchpoint. Rain slowly soaks into his kimono.

A _nice_ kimono, Genji realizes. Not the cheap ones he had told McCree to get. He reaches out, pinches a sleeve, finds the silk smooth and the wool underneath thick. "Where'd you get _this_?" He asks, knowing the question only has one answer.

Hanzo doesn't jerk his arm away, though he looks as if he wants to. Instead he allows Genji's touch and stares straight ahead. "The cowboy," he says, then frowns. " _Obviously_."

"This is almost up to your standards." Genji murmurs, reluctant to let the fabric go but doing so anyway. He turns his voice sly. "How long has this been going on?"

His brother shoots him a sturdy frown, almost shrewd. When he speaks it is more of a challenge than a question. "What."

Like Hanzo saying his name in utter exasperation, this is another familiar exchange. A more pleasant one, and Genji feels the uncomfortable churn in his guts shifting into something less acidic. He flips his shuriken away, back into his arm. " _You know_ ," he finds teasing is easy. "How long have you been interested in my partner?"

He expects denial, or insult, or for Hanzo to ignore him entirely.

Instead he gets Hanzo's spine going straight, then a contained look of chagrin as Hanzo looks around to verify McCree isn't nearby. 

"He's getting your umbrella," Genji offers.

Hanzo scowls at nothing, but a moment later slides his gaze to Genji with a look of prim superiority. "You should ask him how long _he_ has been attracted to _me_."

If Genji's jaw could drop, it would. Instead the lights on his body flare brightly, causing Hanzo to give them a suspicious look. He dances in front of his brother, walking backwards. "How long?"

"Hm, since he first saw me." Genji can hear Hanzo resisting the urge to add a tart _obviously_ there, as well. And Genji wonders when Hanzo found it in him to have as much confidence in _this_ as he did in everything else. 

There's also a slight pang to realize he wasn't there for it.

"I can't believe he didn't tell me he thinks my brother is hot."

Genji's teasing response has the desired effect; Hanzo's face scrunching toward exasperation, another old conversation. Maybe if they just kept playing their greatest hits they could get all the way home without talking about anything important. "Most people would _not_."

Genji laughs, and Hanzo hugs his bottle of whiskey to his chest, unaware as he shivers in the rain. Hanzo muses to himself, quiet enough Genji knows the words aren't really meant for him. "I can't believe it's happening again."

_Again_ , but which again? Hanzo being hit on by one of Genji's lovers? Returning that interest? Or Genji bothering his brother about his sex life? Perhaps all of the above. It feels like they are caught in a surreal pocket of alternate reality. It isn't pure nostalgia; Hanzo of eight years ago would have denied everything, or acted unaware, not smugly owned it. A glimpse not of who they were but who they might have become. The fantasy broken only by Hanzo's drunken stumble over a pothole, even though the path is lit by the green shine off of Genji's inhuman body.

Genji catches him, one hand on Hanzo's shoulder, another under his arm when that isn't enough to correct his brother's balance. 

"I'm fine," mutters Hanzo.

"I know," Genji replies. Then slips closer anyway. He drags Hanzo's free arm across his shoulders, bringing them hip to hip. Once again closing the distance despite the sharp uncertainty he feels at every risky gesture.

Beside him Hanzo hangs, frozen, unwilling.

And then like a feral creature giving in, he folds against Genji's frame. 

Hanzo should be light, but in truth nothing has ever felt like such a burden on this body.

But after a moment of feeling deafened by the whir of his own cybernetics, Genji continues forward, and Hanzo trudges along with him.

They say nothing, and in the distance Genji can hear the jingle of spurs, moving three steps to their one. In a minute McCree has caught up. Genji lifts his head to acknowledge him, Hanzo does not. The umbrella blossoms over them, sheltering them from the rain. 

Hanzo squints up at the shelter. Appears to only just notice McCree by following the arm attached to it. "That took a long time."

McCree smiles and tips his hat in apology. "Sorry, Shimada-san. Dalia's like to gab my ear off if I give her the chance." McCree comes up on Hanzo's other side, reaches for the whiskey held in his hand, and replaces it with the handle of the umbrella. "Here. Let me trade ya."

"That is... a terrible trade." Hanzo frowns at the umbrella handle like it is the one who betrayed him, but doesn't otherwise protest being cut off. 

The next few minutes pass in an awkward silence. Genji searches for a topic, a way to recapture the thoughtless banter of moments ago. But every idea simmers and dies, smothered by a mountain of other concerns. Hanzo's weight against his side, cold from the rain, but undeniably him. The memories of having walked like this a dozen times through the streets of Hanamura, but in reverse, Genji hanging his head as one ungainly step blurred into another. Realizing his brother must be disappointed in him, being too drunk to quite care. 

He wonders if Hanzo is thinking along similar lines -- or if his body; too slim, with too many hard angles and inhuman lights -- is also too alien to trigger old memories. Maybe he is only thinking that this brother really is nothing like the one he had once had.

But as the lights of Watchpoint near, bright and blurred, Genji's mind settles. Anxious fears burn to embers as moments pass and Hanzo does not pull away, does not curse or demand he leave; as it becomes obvious Hanzo is not so drunk he can't walk but allows Genji's arm around him anyway.

The silence is finally broken when McCree begins to whistle a haunting tune. They all slow so that his jangling footsteps fall on beat. They listen to it twice before arriving at the gate of the Watchpoint, and Genji all but carries his quiet, compliant, exhausted brother inside.

\---------------

Hanzo does not quite remember re-entering Gibraltar or how he gets to bed. He has vague impressions of chilly hands stripping off his kimono and chiding him for trying to sleep in something that was going to give him a cold. He recalls thinking that the miserable cot in his cell had never felt as comfortable, and that if he needed it the toilet was close by. 

He awakes several times in the night, disoriented, either too cold or too warm, to a dark cell half-lit by green light. A few times he realizes it is the cyborg, once he remembers it is Genji. In all instances those thoughts come promising holes too deep and too dark to be bothered with. He sinks back into sleep.

When the fog on his brain has lessened enough that he wakes and _stays_. The synapses in his brain come slowly to life, like flame spreading across kindling.

The green glow still lights his cell. 

It's the same color as Genji's dragon. Why had he never made that connection before?

By the time Hanzo rolls over and drags himself into a sitting position, he is not surprised by the sight of the cyborg -- of _Genji_ , because this is what his brother now looks like -- sitting cross legged on the floor and watching something on Hanzo's tablet. 

He does not remember much of the previous evening in detail. It comes back in flickers. Words he had said, things he had seen. Even the parts he had not been drunk for still hide behind an obscuring screen he has no immediate desire to look past. But somehow the _knowledge_ has cemented itself, even if the moments have not. Genji is alive, is here, and wants something from him.

"I'm sorry." 

The words make cracks exiting Hanzo's throat. Scrape over delicate tissue already inflamed by a night of drinking. But he needs them out now, feels it with a clarity he never has for anything anymore. Sometimes he thinks too much. So before he can strategize he tosses out what seems to be the most important truth, before Genji has even looked at him.

He doesn't like that he can't see any emotion on a face that Genji doesn't have. The green slice of visor lifts, turns his way. Genji says nothing and _now_ Hanzo thinks. Thinks that he said it wrong, that he wasn't clear enough, that his brother doesn't understand. 

Hanzo looks away, unable to meet an eyeless gaze, but more words follow, like he can fill the void if he finds the right ones.

"I have thought about it every day since. And I still..." Hanzo freezes, feels his throat catch on something thicker than words. Closes his eyes tightly and swallows until the rebellious sob dies without leaving his throat. "I." He takes a breath. "I still do not know what was right, what I should have done, but I know I could not have been more wrong."

Still, silence. Deliriously he wonders if Genji's voice box is broken because surely his brother would have something to say. He jerks his gaze back the emotionless face plate. Tries to demand, rather than plead, when he says, "Well? If you are waiting for me to say something else, _tell me_!"

Every light on Genji flickers, like a startled blink. "No," then he laughs, a weak and nervous sound. Genji sets down the tablet, rubs his palms against his knees, and now is the one to look away. "I never thought about it, what I would say if you actually apologized. I didn't even know if I would care."

Hanzo feels a cold weight crash from his heart into his stomach. It is not a surprise, exactly. _He_ has thought about it many times, wondered if it would be even possible to be forgiven. And the answer had always seemed obvious. His eyes sting and he shuts them against it.

"But..." Genji continues, his voice quiet and light. "It turns out it means a lot. Thank you, brother."

When Hanzo lifts his gaze, Genji is still staring at him, just as unreadable, inhuman, unrecognizable. He can remember the exact contours of the smile he expected to see, and never will again. That's still the result he has wrought. 

But he can suddenly hear his brother speaking to him. An uncommon and easy happiness. 

The sting worsens, Hanzo curses and presses his fingers against closed eyelids, demanding his body stop. His body's only response is a sharp heave of his breathing, broken and uncontrolled. Humiliatingly childish.

He hears Genji bark a delighted laugh, and a moment later feels a shift in the sheets as his brother joins him on the cot, their knees practically touching. More old memories that rip a hiccuping breath from his chest. 

"Are you crying, Hanzo?" A cool synthetic touch closes around his wrists, trying to gently pry down the hands covering his face.

"Fuck you," he hisses, trying to force all of his bitter anger into the words like that might somehow shore up his vulnerabilities. He needs a drink. 

But Genji only laughs again. Something soft and fond and both like and unlike his brother; a familiar mood, but the voice is still wrong. Fingers run into Hanzo's hair; a rare touch, once when Hanzo had been badly hung over, back before he drank regularly, once when Hanzo had worked himself into a state of exhaustion and collapsed in Genji's room to avoid anyone else noticing. 

Hanzo's chest heaves traitorously again, and he gives up. He rests his face into his hands, and his elbows on his thighs, and lets every miserable emotion flow out of him, as quiet as possible. The tears are few, but the shaking broken huffs and wheezing sharp inhales take a while to subside. Genji stays with him, finger combing his hair, massaging the back of his neck, laughing every once in a while when Hanzo fails to stifle an ugly sound.

Eventually, like a calming storm, it passes. Hanzo is left feeling defeated and achy, but at least he can breathe again. He brushes his brother's greedy touch away, gets to his feet. He washes his face in the sink, hoping that cool water will somehow sooth away the red in his eyes. When he dries he allows himself a shuddering sigh into the towel before he has to look at his brother again.

Genji gets to his feet, takes a careful step forward.

Hanzo curls his fingers into the damp towel. He feels dangerously close to hand-wringing. 

"What now?" Hanzo asks when the silence persists a moment longer than he can stand it. 

Genji's head tilts slightly, like he is considering it. But when he speaks there's a quiet authority in the tone, inviting no argument. "Now you join Blackwatch."

Hanzo is taken aback. He does not know what he had expected, but he had all but forgotten about the cowboy's offer. He shakes his head, and knows before his speaks that he won't sound sure enough, "You're joking. I can't."

"You _are_." His brother is more firm this time. Hanzo feels like Genji is beating against something inside of him, putting cracks in his cornerstone. He says nothing, afraid to argue, aware of what will happen if Genji keeps aiming for weak points. 

But that doesn't stop him, the cyborg nears, persists. The green lights seem very bright in the dark cell.

"Eight years ago, Hanzo, I tried to choose my own path, but you picked for me."

Hanzo looks away, stiffens his mouth into a harsh frown. He can't deny that.

"It's my turn to choose. You aren't going back to the Shimada. This is where you belong now."

In the wake of all other emotion having been wrung out of him, Hanzo only feels a dull sort of appreciation. Check-mated. Genji doesn't even play chess. The only move that will force him to betray his family is the demand from the family he has already betrayed.

Hanzo closes his eyes. He's relieved when his breaths come easily despite the rough, miserable turns of his stomach.

He untangles his hands from terry cloth towel, and holds his right out to his brother. 

"I will try it your way."

Genji's hand clasps his. Too cold, too firm. Inhuman. 

But he remembers it having a light touch against his scalp, and the way Genji's laughter had sounded not just tinny and too deep, but almost forgiving.

"It'll be different this time, brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that closes Act 2. I hope you are all enjoying! I really wanted to get us to a good breaking point, because now I'm going on break.
> 
> I do have two more 'chapters' planned which I hope to get out in November, but neither will be the start of the next act. One will be a collection of my McGenji Week drabbles (which are all canon to Truce, and which I have yet to finish), and the next will be an interlude like the last one. So three short flash back scenes, one for each of our boys.
> 
> I have some other projects I need to start/get out of the way, and which I will be able to say more on in the future. In the mean time I hope you've enjoyed the first half of Truce. There are two more acts, and I will start act three in hopefully early December.


	13. interlude; on building a friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BELATEDLY, these are the shorts I wrote for McGenji week, reorganized and edited a bit so that they go in chronological order instead of prompt order. There are only five because I was really struggling with the last two prompts and eventually decided I need to move on to the many other things I need to be writing.

Every year, all Overwatch Agents, current and former, are invited to a reunion. The location changes, but the people are often the same. 

Or so Genji hears. He has attended only one. _This_ one; his first despite five years in the organization, and he already regrets it.

After weeks of debating how ridiculous it would look, he even purchased a suit for the occasion. He had seen it before, in Numbani, where omnics liked to challenge humans to see them as any different. And after a few quiet and cruel remarks in the back of his mind, he'd come to admire it. Some robots out there looked pretty damn good. But on his own inhuman frame, the same expensive fabrics and tailored cuts he had once worn felt like a costume.

He wonders again why he had even come.

And receives an answer when he spots a cowboy hat bobbing over the heads of unfamiliar faces, a tall man making his way around the crowd rather than through it. Genji can make out the jangle of spurs from across the room, and spares a moment to feel charmed that Agent McCree had also arrived in cosplay.

Genji expects to spend the better part of the night working up the courage to approach the cowboy, but finds it takes only fifteen anxious minutes for McCree to spot him loitering on the outskirts of the bustle and call out to him in a cheerful greeting. _Howdy._

In the three months since they had met in a medbay, nothing more interesting had happened to distract Genji from the memory of a grinning stranger who had casually declared the last four years of Genji's life _pretty fucked up_.

He hadn't appreciated the observation at the time, but the sentiment had echoed in his mind on an almost daily basis in the intervening weeks. _Pretty fucked up_ , as he passed as an omnic, infiltrating Numbani's black market. _Pretty fucked up_ as he stayed awake three days without sleep, just to be contrary to a casual order from the Commander to get some rest. _Pretty fucked up_ when he finally sleeps anyway, and wakes from dreams of sex and dragons feeling nothing at all.

_Pretty fucked up_ when despite the many kind and patient gestures McCree had made while they shared a room together, it was one moment of casual criticism that resonated, unforgotten, in Genji's head.

They catch up. McCree shares stories about past reunions, almost all of which involve drunken fights and drunker apologies, like any family. When he mentions the time Dr. Ziegler had slapped the Commander full in the face, only to set the entire audience into hysterical giggles, Genji actually regrets never having come sooner.

When the McCree wants to get a smoke, Genji follows him out into the night air where it is calmer. He does not talk much, but the American readily fills in the silence for both of them.

It's nice. Or, he thinks it must be nice. He struggles to remember if this is what contentment feels like. But Genji finds himself focusing on the easy drawl in McCree's accent. Asking just enough questions to keep the man talking. Somehow, they pass much of the night that way.

\--------------

"Do you ever think about how different your life could have been?" Genji asks, seemingly out of the blue, rousing Jesse from a half slumber.

They're at the Swiss HQ, in what Jesse has begun to jokingly refer to as _our spot_ : two beds in a shared room in the medbay. The place they had met a year ago, and a week ago decided that since they both were due for a tune up they might as well make sure they overlap so they could catch up in person. 

"Er, how'dya mean?" Jesse ineffectively stifles a yawn, the noise rounds his fist and fills the room. It's late, but they both keep strange hours.

Genji is lying on his back with his legs propped up; his cybernetic soles had needed to be almost completely replaced, and now he is forbidden from putting any weight on them for twenty four hours. Jesse's adjustments hadn't been so dramatic, but he sticks around the extra day to keep the cyborg company and claims Angela is holding him for observation.

"Our lives have not been normal," Genji explains, words slow and carefully formed as if he is discovering the thought as he speaks it. "Many people probably think about it. If they had gone to a different school, or married a different person, pursued a different career. But when it's me... I wonder, what if I had stayed with the Shimada?" His voice turns quieter, wistful; sharing a secret. "I could be near the top of one of the world's leading criminal empires." _I could be whole, and human_ , goes unspoken, but Jesse doesn't need to hear the words to know they're there.

Jesse stretches, feels his joints pop. To his left Genji flicks out a shuriken with a quiet _snk_ , and toys with it in the soft green glow of his own body.

"You think you would'a liked it?" Jesse asks.

Near silent clicks as the shuriken flicks between Genji's nimble fingers. "Parts of it. I could have had a lot of power and autonomy, if I had been willing to do the work."

"Yakuza's pretty nasty business to get your hands in just so you can do whatever you want the rest of the time."

Genji's green visor tilts toward Jesse. "I have killed more for Overwatch in five years than I did for the Shimada in all my life."

Jesse laughs, a startled chuckle that further wakes him. It's something he's thought on himself, though it hasn't needled at him in years. "Me too, if you wanna look at it that way." He shrugs, sits up, scratches down his neck to tease life into tired skin. "But if I'd stuck it out with Deadlock, I'm pretty sure I'd just be dead now."

"You're pretty capable, was it that dangerous?"

"Oh yeah. None of this…this." Jesse gestures around the medbay. "No real safe havens, forget decent medical. I was a hotshot with a gun but not half clever enough to hide it. Lotta guys don't like being shown up by a kid ten years under em. If Reyes hadn't picked me up I probably woulda gotten a bullet through my ego before much longer."

Quiet again, Genji mulls over his words, and Jesse triggers the hospital bed into a reclining position. He settles with his hands folded behind his head.

Sometimes talk of the past eats at him, but this subject doesn't. Joining up with Overwatch was the best choice his dumb-as-bricks teenage-self had ever made, and he's grateful to the little shit for it every day. There are things about the gang life he misses now and then. Some of the people were alright. Some of them weren't alright but Jesse'd loved them anyway. And there was nothing in the world like riding your bike through the sun-baked desert, kept cool only by the wind in your hair, with the roar of fifty other motors around you.

"I think I could have done well," Genji finally concludes, interrupting Jesse's revierve. "If I had played by their rules."

"Why didn't ya then?" Jesse murmurs, carrying on his part of a conversation he senses Genji is mostly having with himself.

An uncomfortable shift, a sullen tone, "Just contrary, I guess."

"Aw c'mon. You know that ain't it."

Genji chuckles, a sound that seems to echo up from inside of him. It's not the free and loud laugh Jesse hears now and then, but just just a bitter and cut up version of it. "You know what really did it?" He asks, then answers his own question. "It was all the fucking comics."

Jesse lifts his head, feeling like he ought to be able to connect the dots but struggling. "Pardon."

"I wanted to be a hero." Genji confesses, sounding not bitter, but amused. "It's so stupid. But I had all of these abilities, right out of a manga, but the older I got the more I couldn't pretend we weren't the villains."

"Ah, pardner…" Jesse isn't sure what to say to that, maybe because he can sympathize. Not that he'd ever really entertained ideas of being a hero as a kid. Never really got the chance. Hell, he can't remember much at all from before his Deadlock days and even then he hadn't been dumb enough to convince himself they were saving anything but their own hides.

But Genji shakes his head, green slight slashing through the dark room. "I said it was childish."

Jesse can't stop a disquieted groan, scratches a hand through his hair. "Well, ya came to the right place, anyway. Think just about everyone joins Overwatch wanting to be a hero. Hell, they put it on the fucking pamphlets."

"Does anyone ever get to feel like one?"

There's a cold, bitter hollow to the cyborg's voice now. Jesse shoots him a grim smile. "Couldn't tell ya, compadre."

The cyborg seems to accept that, settles into silence in his body, with his own thoughts. Jesse has more trouble with it, mulling over his own words.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, he adds an addendum: "But you know, if you can't be a hero, being the villain to the villains probably ain't the wrong way to go. Between you and me, I think you made the right call."

\------------------

The first time McCree holds Genji he is drunk.

It is the day of the cowboy's return from an extended mission in Guatemala, and as always his only desire for celebration is to head to Dalia's to drink and tell stories. None of them were exactly true; truths would go down in reports, to be read by only one or two men and then locked away to be forgotten. But entertaining tales surface and Genji listens to them gamely, commenting, exchanging banter, or just bathing in a quiet envy as the bar's other patrons lap it all up.

Afterward, McCree smokes outside the bar, and drags Genji to him with an arm around his neck like it is the most natural thing in the world.

Genji freezes, blames it on his friend's inebriation, and tells his body to pull away.

But he cannot quite manage it. Instead he inhales on the alcohol and sweat and cigarillo smoke entrenched in McCree's clothing after a night of drinking. He realizes, with a dull ache, that the touch feels so foreign and so nostalgic because it has been years since anyone casually tugged him into a drunken embrace.

He tries to crack a joke, to diffuse the warm tension simmering in his chest, to tug away and save some kind of face.

He expects McCree to crack a joke, laugh, push him away after a moment, anything to blow a cool breeze on the rising heat between them.

But neither happens.

Later, he does not know if McCree even remembers it.

But Genji thinks on it regularly, at odd intervals. Finds himself yearning for the cozy crook of the cowboy's arm, held with a casual warmth his cybernetic body had never experienced.

\----------------

Their first op together is in Sydney, undercover but not covert. They go in as a couple, Stephen and Takeshi, the Millers, who have moved to Sydney for Stephen's job, knowing full well that Australia's stance on mixed marriages was rife, to say the least.

The operation's objective is to uncover violent anti-omnic forces; common in the irradiated outback but technically illegal everywhere and even somewhat enforced into Australia's more metropolitan areas. During the day they move in public, Stephen taking photographs all across the city, his husband posing, dramatic, sensual, for many of them. At night Takeshi is free to move through the streets, lively and bright at any hour, spying on likely targets they had earned the attention of during the day.

Jesse can't tell if Genji enjoys it. It seems like it, from the way he laughs, the comfortable hand that settles around his waist. The cyborg challenges the gaze of anyone with the gall to stare, and never blinks first. Jesse isn't actually any good with cameras but he doesn't know enough about photography to mind being bad at it. He takes his "husband's" photo while Genji climbs statues, fountains, buildings, violating city ordinances left and right. But at night, out of the eyes of the public, Genji withdraws to his usual distance, and though Jesse starts to think he's getting pretty dang okay with the photography thing, he gives up on trying to get the cyborg to look at pictures of himself.

But for a few weeks they play house. Genji helps Jesse with his ties when Jesse feigns ignorance on how they work, gives him a more stylish shave when he's unsatisfied with Jesse's work, and picks up the clothing when Jesse leaves them spread in little puddles across the floor. Jesse learns that Genji can flirt circles around him, leave him disoriented and charmed and flustered, but will turn it right back off as soon as it's not part of the mission. He learns Genji sleeps often but has no interest in sharing the bed, instead dozing in one of the hotel's plush chairs at almost every free opportunity. He learns cyborgs can't really get cold, but still look pretty cute if you put a blanket over one while he naps.

And when they find their targets and Jesse is all but useless, thanks to a green blade that lights up from a dark corner and darts through the group of hostiles, leaving nothing but still bodies a red tide, Jesse learns Genji is shyly appreciative of having someone to help remove his layers of armor so he can wash off the blood that has seeped underneath.

\----------------

One night, out of the blue, Genji suggests a movie night.

A _western_ movies night, which is almost a challenge for Jesse to dare to say no. 

It's a weeknight, and Blackwatch is gearing up for an extended mission in the outback. Jesse should've turned him down but Genji played his cards well, how the hell could he miss this?

So they burn through two different remakes of A Fistful of Dollars, the original The Good the Bad and the Ugly, and With the Dawn, which came out only a few years back but Genji'd completely missed it on account of being busy being miserable and probably killing his family. Jesse takes it as a duty and privilege of their friendship to make sure Genji sees it, and by the end Genji chatters excitedly about how well Glitchbot can _act_ and the omnic should really be getting bigger billing.

It's when Genji is getting ready to start up a fifth movie that Jesse stops him with a quiet tug to the scarf on the back of cyborg's head. 

"Compadre, it's just about dawn here and I'm lifting off for an op in about six hours. You wanna tell me what's on your mind before I go dark for three weeks?"

The cyborg stills, turns over his hololens, and lets out a nervous laugh. "Mm, you've got me." Jesse knows, and waits. Genji continues. "Today is... ah. I guess to be dramatic, you could call it my death day."

Jesse lifts his eyebrows, and scrubs a hand through his hair. He _knew_ that, feels the information kick up dust somewhere in his noggin. May 6th, early morning. Recovered with fatal injuries from within the Shimada compound. But he'd forgotten the details, put it aside, neglected to drag it up again when he and Genji started getting close. 

When Jesse responds with nothing more than a breathed curse, Genji continues, "I thought it would be fine. Usually I go to Hanamura, but..."

"Aw, hell." Jesse digs out a cigarillo, gnaws on the end. "Well, I hope this wasn't a bad way to spend it. Sorry I gotta haul off so soon."

"No," Genji assures. His nervous fingers flutter across the the gadget in his hands, but his voice stays light. "This was good. Thank you."

Jesse nods, lights up his cigarillo and fishes for a way to nose around the topic. "What do you usually do back in Japan? Guessin' it ain't watching movies."

A brief chuckle stirs out of the cyborg, he sets the hololens down on the table. "My brother," Genji always gets careful when he mentions his brother. Slows down, like he's double and triple checking every syllable. "He has a ceremony. Where we fought."

"Ceremony?" Jesse puts a bare hint of the question into his voice. Invested, but only just. 

"Yes." Genji turns quieter, words clipped. "To mourn, I guess."

Jesse takes a slow pull of smoke into his mouth, "Sounds like he ain't forgotten you. You think he regrets it?"

Too direct, too leading. Genji stills, looking away, and for a moment Jesse is sure he pushed too far and Genji will bolt. But instead what happens is the cyborg relaxes back into the couch; a slow uncurling that puts his shoulder down against Jesse's side. Dangerously close to slipping right into his lap.

Jesse takes the invitation and fits his palm to the back of Genji's head, thumb playing over the point of a little ear spike. 

"I can't decide what I think," he finally answers. 

Jesse sighs, stretches, and puts his feet up on the table. "Wish I could tell ya, pardner. But I don't know the guy."

Genji says nothing, Jesse recognizes thinking silence when he hears it, and puffs away at his cigarillo until it's nearly out. 

As he's leaning forward to bury the butt in an ashtray, Genji speaks.

"If I _did_ want to bring him in... How would you do it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reminder, next we will have a three scene interlude (similar to the chapter 7 interlude) and then we start act 3. I am still working on clearing other projects off my schedule so Truce is going to continue to be updated slowly until I have narrowed it down to just two projects, then I hope to be able to alternate each one I update every ten days or so.


	14. interlude; on crossroads

Hanzo returns home three days after the fight.

The wake is that same evening.

He floats through it, feeling ephemeral and untethered in the hospital issued hover chair. The guests offer their condolences with murmurs that pass through him; not a single word manages to catch inside his ears. His eyes skate around the framed photos of his brother, instead drawn to the movements of hands over the bowl of incense and the slow waft of pale smoke. He realizes he will never get the earthy and morbid smell out of his nostrils.

There is no casket. He has attended dozens of funerals, but this one breaks pattern. The body is already cremated. A numb monotone in the back of his mind informs him he has fucked it up; his brother's one and only funeral.

Ando-san pays his respects with his head bowed, as if he had not four days before told Hanzo that Genji needed to die, and two days after that congratulated him on doing the right thing. The elder's mouth had cut a severe crevice in stony features, but his eyebrows were held aloft with something like pride.

A distant part of Hanzo advises he leap from the chair and cut the man's throat open. Ando is old, Hanzo wouldn't need his feet.

A more immediate part reminds he'd be better to turn the blade into his own stomach instead. 

The rest of him chants a silent mantra that none-the-less drowns out the priest and his sutra; _he's dead because you killed him, he's dead because you killed him, he's dead because you..._.

Hanzo stays with the ashes all night and does not sleep. The night passes without words or tears or much of anything but an empty stare at the carved box bearing his brother's remains. Hanzo wonders how long it will take until he feels as if he inhabits his own body again. How long until he believes that body inhabits a reality where his brother is dead ( _because I killed him_ ).

In the morning, there is another ceremony. His brother's ashes are buried near their father.

Hanzo records little of it to memory.

The funeral guests are all clansmen, some of them men who had despised Genji, others who hadn't even known him. They are here because they support the clan, not because they would miss his brother.

Genji's friends do not attend. Hanzo almost thinks to ask if they had even been invited, but finds he doesn't care about the answer.

When the guests leave, a young woman with eyelids painted bright green darts between the bodies filing out the open gate. Hanzo does not recognize her specifically, but identifies her as the right age and disposition to be among his brother's social circle.

She has a wide look in her eyes. Frightened; not of standing in the middle of a loose gathering of yakuza, but of the dour funeral wear surrounding her. "Where is he?" She asks no one, until the moment her gaze finds Hanzo. He watches her identify him, then take in the chair and the blanket hiding his injured legs. Her stare lingers where his feet do not dent the blanket.

"What happened?" This time there is a cold clarity in her voice, she already knows the answer.

So Hanzo says nothing.

But that isn't enough. And the moment she springs for him is the moment Watanabe-kun steps from between two guests, grabbing the girl's wrists and twisting them behind her in a relentless grip. The girl grimaces, growls, and then decides Watanabe is not who she wants, her attention snaps back to Hanzo. "Tell me!"

"He's dead." _Because I killed him._

His intention was to only give her half the truth, but his mouth rebels. Voicelessly, his lips complete the manta, confessing to this stranger. He watches her decipher the message and feels nothing.

To some degree or another, all of Genji's friends have a confrontational spirit. No respectable citizen would consort with someone of Genji's demeanor, appearance, tastes, and connections. He expects her to be furious. Maybe threaten to kill him. 

Instead he sees the anger and fear drop away from her features, replaced with only a knit confusion. A look of such disoriented _loss_ that Hanzo almost has the impulse to offer her a hand.

"What?" She shakes her head, Watanabe-kun continues to hold her wrists but it's unnecessary. The girl looks as if she has been spun dizzy. Like if Watanabe released her, she might sit down where she stands. " _Why?_ What... happened? Aren't you his brother?"

"Enough," Watanabe jerks her hard by the wrists, no nonsense as she escorts her prisoner to the gate to be tossed out. The girl hardly even seems to notice, dragged through the gathering of family that watched but kept a distance. Her vision jerks to each of them in turn, stuttering between imposing faces and mourning garb. "Don't you call yourself _family_?? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!"

No one answers her.

Watanabe-kun drags her out of view of the gate.

When the guests have left, Hanzo steers his chair through the halls until he reaches Genji's room.

It's different, Hanzo realizes, as he takes in the decorations with dull observations. It is always different, lately. Genji redecorated or rearranged his room at least once a year. Posters went up and down, Japanese sensibility was replaced with a western frivolity, then back to his roots again. Merchandise from his favorite shows would go on display, then be knocked into trashcans or drawers. Currently he has a large mattress on a high pedestal with dark blue sheets. Armor he hates to wear still stands in proud display on a mannequin in the corner. A wall has been decorated with all manner of weapons, as if they are for aesthetic purposes alone. Hanzo supposes Genji would rather use them to impress lovers than take lives.

Not that it matters now. _Not when he's dead because you killed him._

There is a long cabinet in the corner, expensive bronze wood engraved with dark, shimmering dragons. It had belonged to their father. Hanzo remembers catching Genji sliding it through the halls from his room; one of the few demonstrations his brother made of trying to keep a piece of the man who had raised them.

They hadn't talked much, in the months since his death. Hanzo had no doubts that the spike of increased distance was related to his brother's own fraught feelings about their father and the Shimada legacy left to them. But Hanzo'd had little time to mourn, and no option to run away from his responsibilities. 

He opens the cabinet, revealing a narrow skyline made up of colorful bottles; tall or fat, square or round. He picks out a long red one, rice wine produced right here in Hanamura from a small distillery, and pours himself a glass.

Genji's room looks out over a square garden. It's late in the season and the blossoms are sparse, but green and burgundy leaves have unfurled into a backdrop for the remaining speckle of pale flowers, all of which rest on the slate gray gravel that makes up the majority of the garden. Every pebble is polished down to river stone softness so they could walk on it barefoot with no discomfort. 

He supposes neither of them will ever enjoy that again.

Hanzo's bedroom is on the opposite end of the same garden, though it has been years since they would meet in the middle. To spar, to discuss their unshared interests, to bicker, to drink.

_"It's my birthday, brother, so you have to do whatever I say."_

_"I've never once agreed to that," Hanzo sighs, begrudgingly aware that within reason, he would anyway. Genji must have deduced the same._

_"C'mon, I'm not asking for a lot, just try a little spine with me."_

_Hanzo turns a sharp gaze on Genji, "You_ must _be joking."_

_"No?"_

_Hanzo, twenty, on break during Golden Week meaning he had only half as many responsibilities as usual, reaches out to tweak his younger brother's ear. "Stop using the product! You're going to get addicted."_

_Genji sidles closer to Hanzo at the tug with the same fluidity he uses to diffuse punch or a throw. And then rolls his eyes. "So it's fine if it's other people, just not me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Heh," there's a wistful twist to Genji's mouth. "Sure. Look, we're not getting addicted, I just want to try it once."_

_Hanzo sighs, and Genji nudges him. "Have you _ever_ been high?"_

_"When would I find time?"_

_"Hmmm, maybe on your brother's birthday? The one that's conveniently also a holiday?"_

Genji had wheedled his way to victory with a sing-song smugness, and Hanzo had covertly agreed to smoke bullet of spine with him; artificially green orbs of a psychedelic drug they were distributing internationally with a Russian partner. Hanzo had only seen them on business trips, their father had been staunchly against the drug finding its way to the street of Japan. He'd never gotten around to asking how Genji got his hands on it.

It hadn't gone well. 

Spine got its name from the dramatically heightened focus on information coming out of the nervous system, resulting in an ability to _experience_ one's own body to a degree most people found ethereally super human. The rest compared it to being buried alive within their own flesh. 

Hanzo, it had turned out, fell into the later category. 

At some point his brother had dragged him into a closet and covered him with a blanket, while Hanzo remained steadfastly convinced that the sting of salt from tears forming in his eyes was actually caused by his body turning to dust and drifting away one grain at a time.

Genji had a great deal more fun, too high to actually be concerned about Hanzo's paranoid breakdown.

The closet and blanket hadn't really helped, but he suppose it hid him well enough that no one in the family ever found out about the embarrassing incident.

He feels a faint smile tug at his lips. He had been more angry at himself than his brother; a stupid choice made to appease your family is still stupid.

He didn't do anything with Genji on his birthday this year. Hasn't in awhile.

Hanzo notices his sake is gone and floats back into his brother's room to refill it. He wonders if Genji is likely to come home soon, and if he would be annoyed to catch his brother going through his alcohol.

Then he remembers the snap across his fingers as the arrow flew.

_How could you forget that he's dead when you're the one who killed him?_

He drinks the next glass much more quickly, and instead of refilling it just takes the bottle into the chair with him.

Eventually he has drunk enough that it feels acceptable to poke through Genji's belongings. The three complete sets of women's lingerie don't convince him to mind his own business, but his mind is changed quickly by the chest full of a colorful assortment of items he recognizes as 'sex toys' but whose purposes he cannot, for the most part, decipher. 

Is this something he wants to look up himself, or ask Genji about, or simply scrub from his mind entirely?

Then he remembers the dragons burning up his veins as they claw their way out of him.

_You'll never ask him anything again, not when he's dead because you killed him._

It's like his brain, usually so sharp, deliberately keeps letting go of the information, so that he can be punished anew every time he rediscovers it.

He drinks, and decides that is fine. It is far less than he deserves. 

He drinks, and returns to the garden to suffer the almost cathartic tide of memories. 

He drinks, and he thinks about the brother that is dead because he has killed him.

\--------------------------------------

_Get outta here, Deadeye._

He hadn't listened.

So now he sits handcuffed to a metal table and on the wrong side of the law.

The Law, it turns out, looks like Commander Fucking Reyes. Or Ex-Commander. Or whatever. Jesse wasn't military and only knew as much about Overwatch as a couple of blockbusters and gossiping through smoky nights with the gang had taught him. But he'd seen the posters, the papers, the magazines, the comics, the _action figures_ , so when Reyes walks into the narrow room with corrugated walls he's been held in for the last hour, Jesse doesn't much manage to bury his surprise.

The thing is, when you meet the Real Person, they're supposed to be smaller than the movies would have you believe. No one is really larger than life. No one can be six-foot-one and _feel_ nine feet tall. And maybe it's just the skull fracture he's still recovering from or being handcuffed so that he _can't_ stand, but Reyes just kind of _reads_ as huge, at some base and instinctual level. The same part of Jesse's brain that tells him when to pull the trigger so that three bodies all hit the floor simultaneously lets him know that this guy could put Jesse _through_ one of these thin metal walls if he wanted to, and that he just might. The interrogation room's stale air coalesces around Reyes like a fist, and he isn't doing anything other than looking at Jesse over the rim a dark blue tablet.

"Huh," Reyes' voice is deep and deceptively mild. His eyes dart back to the screen of his computer. "No wonder it took admin so long to find you."

"Find me?"

Jesse had about ten thousand expectations on how this might go, and thus none at all. He'd been a 'criminal' all his life, but you weren't _really_ a criminal in the Post-Crisis Southwest. There'd have to be laws for that, and authority to enforce them. Deadlock did what they did wanted because no one was there to stop them. So he'd been tied up by other gangs a few times, and he'd drawn lines in the sand that the uninitiated had to walk, but that was it out here. The rest of the country had _given up_ on New Mexico, Arizona, a good half of Texas, and all of south Cali. And hell, that was fine by him.

But it also means he's only seen how this goes in movies and, much like how films always got gunfire and blood-spray and bodies wrong, he's been doubting their validity when it came to setting his expectations on being brought in by Overwatch.

So when Reyes mentions _finding him_ he wonders if somehow the reputation of Deadeye had preceded him to a national level. Flattering and terrifying all at once. He forces a grin. "Who were you looking for?"

"Jesse McCree, that's what you're calling yourself, yeah?" Reyes pulls up a seat as he speaks, tone conversational, and drops the tablet on the table where Jesse can see it. It's a file for a Jessica McCree, born 3/4/2037 in Las Cruces New Mexico. Sex: Female. Parents: Anne McCree and--

'Jessica' doesn't have any photos, but Anne does. Jesse feels something like being squeezed along a bruise that happens to cover his entire chest and looks away.

"So you could only find my sister? Sorry, I was born off the books, so--" The lie is automatic, easy. It's already occurred to him that he might be in a registry somewhere, under a name he hasn't heard in ten years.

"That's what admin figured. Not all that uncommon, though you're a little old to be a Crisis baby." Reyes drags the tablet back, taps the file closed. "Til they talked to the hospital."

Jesse grimaces. Thinks about waking up in a smock, in a white room, no gang or gun anywhere in sight. He'd done his best to charm the nurses -- at least when he was able to string two words together without drooling -- and he'd more or less succeeded. But it wasn't like that meant they'd be keeping his secrets.

He scowls and says nothing. He's learned a lot of self preservation, growing up in Deadlock, and keeping your mouth shut got him through more bad days than he can count. 

Reyes seems thoughtful and unperturbed, waiting like he expects Jesse to come up with another lie, maybe argue, but after about ten seconds of silence unfurling between them, Reyes speaks as if there had been no gap in the conversation at all.

"So, Jesse," and yeah, Jesse's surprised to hear Reyes make a point to use his name, "What happened to your parents?"

"What do you think?"

"I _think_ ," Reyes responds with an effortlessly unruffled tone that reminds him of Dolly, "you should answer me."

Dolly'd always kind of tweaked his tit with that. He grumbles, "Awfully full of yourself, demanding my sob story when you haven't told me your name."

"You can call me Reyes."

He says it like it's nothing, like that information comes unbound from context or questions, but Jesse can't stifle an urge to shift uncomfortably. "...are you really him? The guy in the movies?"

"The guy in the movies is named Charlee Mena. I'm just the guy doing my job. And right now, my job is to figure out what to do with you. So let's try this again, where's your family?"

Somehow, Reyes makes him feel ridiculous for even being curious. It's not like he was even a fucking _fan_ , obviously everyone's favorite was Reinhardt anyway. So he shoves the fact that this guy is _that_ Reyes aside and answers the question shortly, "dead."

"During the war?" Reyes asks, his tone just as neutrally invested, and Jesse nods. There's nothing special about his story, and he doesn't remember much of it anyway. "Anyone who isn't? Cousin, uncle, grandparent?"

Jesse shrugs, and the handcuffs clatter against the table with the movement. "What's it matter? You gonna shove me off on someone instead of sticking me in a cell?"

"Hah, with how marked up your arm is?" They both flick their gazes to Jesse's exposed left arm. The forest of black crosses has grown from his wrist to halfway up his bicep. A territory war had broken out with Bonewash and he'd been busy the last eight months. "You don't even have a chance in hell of even getting tried as a minor, forget parole. Nah, you might be able to fight it a while if you get a good defense, but one way or another you'll go in for life, kid."

That he might get let up on for his age hadn't occurred to him. And _life_ probably won't even be that long. He makes himself grin, cocksure and uncaring. "Sounds like your job is pretty easy then."

Reyes purses his lips. It's the first sign of a temperament being tested, and Jesse has to guess it's because the wrath of the _law_ doesn't inspire any fear in him.

But it only lasts a few seconds before Reyes sighs and stretches, getting to his feet. "Before I hand you over to the feds, I've got a bet to settle with a friend of mine. How's your head feeling?"

"Like shit," he answers honestly. The drugs wore off hours ago, and the throb behind his eyes has been perpetual since.

There's a clacking sound as Reyes removes a set of plastic keys from his pocket. "Can you still shoot?"

"I..." Jesse feels his heart stop, confused and hopeful at the same time. It occurs to him suddenly that no one's going to give him a gun in jail. _Life_ sounds a lot longer when it means _bored out of his mind and completely useless_. "I can always shoot."

Reyes unlocks his handcuffs, they pop open with a subtle hiss.

"Alright then, let's see you shoot."

\---------

It turns out Reyes' _friend_ is Ana Motherfucking Amari.

They find her stretched out in the sun, stripped down to a tank top and combat pants and lining up her sights on remote targets zipping around at what must be a thousand yards out. Jesse can only see them because Reyes hands him a set of binoculars to observe her batting the steel grey disks around like she's playing kick-the-can with bullets. When her magazine is spent and the echo of gunfire has faded, she rolls to her feet and shoulders her rifle in a single unbroken motion. She grins when she sees them, a bright and hard humor flickers across her face as she looks over Jesse, then Reyes.

"Decided to take my bet, Gabriel?"

Jesse swallows, thinking movies really just never stop lying, because once again Hollywood just couldn't can this and reproduce it for a screen.

She's not like anyone he's ever seen. There's a raw, cracked look to people raised out here. Edges like glass, skin like sandpaper. The New Mexican sun will give you the texture you need to hang on through anything. But she's smooth like titanium; not unscarred but merely nicked by blows he thinks might've cleaved someone lesser in half.

He holds his breath. He wishes they hadn't taken his fucking hat so he could take it off. He curses not getting the chance to look in a mirror in days.

"Bet?" He echoes.

"She thinks you might be half as good as your reputation." Reyes crosses to a blue and weather-beaten munitions trunk, popping it open with another tap from his key ring.

Jesse keeps his eyes on Reyes, afraid of what expression might form if he looks at Amari. "You don't?"

"Nope."

It's not a surprise, really. Jesse's lost track of how many times he's been asked to prove himself. Hell, for the boss it'd basically been a game. Showing off his young hot shot, telling Jesse to keep sleeves off his left arm as the tattoos crawled further up it. It had always filled him with two parts smug pride, and one part a buried humiliation whenever he remembered he was performing tricks like a well trained dog. 

But frankly if someone like Amari pat his head and called him a good boy he figures maybe there's worse ways to use his talents.

Reyes returns with a pistol, warns him to not get any stupid ideas because it's loaded with low-impact rounds, and holds it out. 

Jesse hesitates, hand hovering over the butt, trying to figure out how this might be a trap. But his fingers itch to find a trigger, and after a few seconds he yanks the gun from Reyes' unresisting grip. Whatever, he's fucked anyway.

The gun in his hands feels too light. It is clean and new but worn around the grip in a way that says it sees a lot of use anyhow. Immaculately kept. He doesn't recognize the exact model, but it has full and semi-auto settings, shoots twelve .30 caliber rounds, and it feels almost fragile compared to the modified old Desert Eagle he was used to using these days. 

"This isn't my gun."

Reyes has rearranged himself next to Amari, and tips his head in her direction with his arms crossed. "Your gun is evidence. That's her gun."

Looking at them both at the same time feels a little like standing right up on the edge of a cliff so that all you can see is endless, exhilarating sky, and so he only darts a glance at them from under his tense brows. "You can't just give me a new gun and expect--"

"What'd I say, Ana?" There's a smug note to Reyes' voice. "Kid's a con artist not a murder sava--"

Jesse knows his cue.

The first bullet explodes through a thick cardboard silhouette fifty yards out with a rapport that is quieter than Jesse expects but still loud enough to punctuate the end of Reyes' goading statement.

"Ohh, not a bad shot." Amari croons behind him. "Last chance to back out, Gabriel. I won't let you off cheap."

Jesse wonders if they have something going on, in the movies they kept it professional.

"Suure, one bullet into a stationary target. He's a natural. Ana, were you always this easily impressed?" He hears Reyes' smooth sarcasm on his left. Jesse can pick his shape up in the corner of his eye. "Come on, kid. I want to know why they call you Deadeye."

Jesse sucks in a steadying breath, says nothing, and shoots. 

He's handled a lot of guns, there were a lot of _options_ when you work for arms dealers. And he's learned to impress with just about every type of pistol he can get his hands on. This one is new, fancy, too quiet and absorbs so much recoil he can't feel the shock in his joints the way he is used too. The trigger depresses so smooth each bullet emerges like a surprise. He empties the clip perforating a line down a single target, nose to groin. The vertical spacing is uneven in a few points, but goes straight down the silhouette's spine.

"Hn. Tight aim, alright, but--"

There is a sharp click from Ana on Jesse's right. "Don't try to weasel out of it. I don't think _Jack_ has that kind of consistency without aids."

"We're not rating Morrison, Ana. This is about if a sixteen year old has seriously been showing up every wanna-be cowboy in--"

"I'm not done," Jesse interjects quickly, shoulders hunching when he realizes he'd interrupted, then presses on anyway. "Give me two more clips."

"Two?" Reyes asks, and Jesse turns to face him, chest puffed with what he hopes reads as confidence.

"Two, if you want to see why I got named Deadeye." He forces a smug grin, "Less, if you're just afraid of losing to her." He tips his empty hand toward Amari.

Reyes rumbles, appraises him with a gaze that makes Jesse feel like his veins have turned brittle, and then gets two more clips.

Jesse reloads, finds his hands are trembling. 

He still gets anxious about it, usually when there are lives on the line, but sometimes when it's just his reputation. He breathes, so long and slow that he can feel the warm desert air seeping into him from inside. _Shooting is easy_ , he reminds himself.

He pulls the trigger twelve times in under three seconds.

The sound of gunfire can be soothing, if you hear it enough. If you control it, so it reverberates like music notes in your bones. Echoing from finger to wrist to elbow to shoulder. He can feel it in his jaw, his inner ear. The familiar violence shimmies all the way up his right side.

The bullets rip a large hole in the center of a target twenty-five yards out. He expects to hear something smart from the audience, something about how he should have just fired in auto, but Reyes and Amari are both silent fixtures behind him, and he loads in the last clip.

It's late fall, and the almost-cool temperature is rare and perfect. The light isn't so bright that it increases his headache, and the terrain that unfurls around the temporary buildings serving as Overwatch's base of operations is filtered pastel under the October sun. A half a dozen targets remain untouched, sticking out stark and rigid among the thigh-high shrubs; two at fifteen yards, easy, one more at twenty-five and fifty each, and a couple of real long shots out at seventy-five.

Jesse inhales and cracks his knuckles. Exhales and drops his hand with the gun down near his hip. Goddamn unprofessional, he bets, but it's not about _aiming_. It's about mapping the pattern into his muscles. Get the thinking out of the way before he even lifts his gun so that when it's time to shoot there's nothing but reflex.

He takes in the range with eyes so wide he can feel the sun pricking the insides of his retinas, jerks the gun up clicks the trigger down four times. His left hand rests level just beyond the rear sight, and each blast sends the gun bouncing up against his palm only to be immediately steadied, fired again.

Four holes bloom into the four nearest targets, starting right and moving left but so fast they seem to appear simultaneously. Eye, eye, nose, mouth. 

Jesse's heart races and hands ache like he'd been there shooting for hours. He swells and can't stop a grin that he's afraid to turn and show his captors. 

A hand lands on his right shoulder, small but deceptively heavy, and squeezes. 

"Nice shooting, kid." Ana Amari says, then, with a grin in her voice Jesse _has_ to turn to get a look at, she walks away, slapping a stone-faced Reyes in the waist as she goes. "Next time we're in Bengaluru, Gabe. My favorite place. You better be ready to drop two weeks pay on it."

\------------

Jesse decides he doesn't care that Reyes isn't impressed. The sound of Amari praising him was going to echo between his ears for weeks. Not a bad final shoot.

But when he is handing Amari's pistol back to Reyes (safety on, magazine detached), the momentary elation buoying him putters out and leaves him in a free fall. He turns away to look back out at the desert for as long as he can while Reyes is locking up the weapon. He tries to etch the landscape into memory but finds the idea that he might not see it for a while, might not see it again ever, distracting in its unbelievably. The desert is always there; out every window, at the end of every long road, beyond every mountain stenciled against the horizon. Love it or hate it, you diffuse into it all the same, until only density distinguishes you from the dust in the air. 

What could prison do to change that?

Maybe he wouldn't even live long enough to need to worry about it.

There's something brewing behind him, a disquiet in Reyes percolating toward confrontation that Jesse can feel like a thunderstorm charges the air. 

In some ways, Reyes reminds him of many men in Deadlock. Guys who hold themselves like they're made out of gunpowder, all dangerous but still inert energy. Some of them will never go off, but Jesse's not fool enough to _trust_ that, and so he's learned to track them with a gut instinct that holds him in an even orbit just outside their potential blast radius.

Jesse makes himself turn, tries to read the meaning in the set of Reyes' shoulders, but can't settle on anything other than 'pissed off'. So he loads up a weak grin, almost self-effacing. "Guess she really got you, sounds like you had a lot riding against me."

"Heh," there's a gravel to Reyes' voice that wasn't there before. "Figured I'd at least get to call it even. But you didn't leave me a lot of room for debate there."

Despite the tense anger, a wistful amusement plays on Reyes' face, and Jesse again wishes he had a hat to fuss at. Mixed emotions can be hard to navigate, especially when he can't figure out the origin. Reyes doesn't actually seem all that burned about the money. 

"Are you two, uh... you know?" He asks, mostly to distract, partly to know.

That catches Reyes by surprise, and his bushy eyebrows climb up to his near invisible hairline. "With _Ana?_ " He laughs, a low roll with none of the earlier texture. "I'm married, kid, but not to her."

Jesse doesn't point out that even a _kid_ knows marriage doesn't mean faithfulness, especially not when you're friendly with a lady who looks like that. But the question did its job; the dangerous energy in Reyes has dissipated, leaving the man only frowning at him in puzzlement, and Jesse looks away from the scrutiny, reaches for a hat he doesn't have.

"You ever been arrested before, Jesse?"

That sounds like a trick question, so Jesse stays quiet, waiting to spot the tripwire.

"Didn't think so." Reyes nods, sussing out the truth effortlessly. He leans back against a table with his arms crossed, the metal legs scrape over packed sand at his weight. "Going off what I heard from your charming Deadlock pals, half of you have never seen anything but this wild west bullshit. So let me explain how this plays out."

Reyes waits and Jesse says nothing; listening but feeling a hundred miles out. Reyes's low voice harmonizes well with the melancholy settling in his chest.

"You've basically got a couple of options; you can confess to every life you've _allegedly_ tattooed into your arm there, or try to convince the judge you've just been playing around, that there's no way you've _actually_ put four dozen men in the ground in the last, what, three years?"

"Four."

Jesse doesn't expect to hear Reyes pause at that, but there's a sound of him sucking at his teeth, three beats, and then an exhale. "Mary mother they start 'em early out here." Jesse watches a lizard skitter jerkily through the dust a few yards out and waits for Reyes to continue. "And you know what? If you'd kept your head down, that might've gotten you a sympathy verdict. Toss the kid a lifeline while the adults rot out of sight for the rest of their lives. But nah, you had to go and show off. So what's everyone going to think when they find out about you making yourself an easy bet in the local death games down here? Trading ears for to make yourself a hot shot?"

Jesse had almost gotten lulled into it; a comfortable, detached acceptance that this was effectively the last day of his life. But the mention of the game jerks him back into the moment, and he stares at Reyes whose lips have curled on the sour story.

"Don't look so surprised. What did you think was going to happen when you and a few hundred other geniuses were handing that woman _proof_? Expected us to just never hear about it? Hell, soon everyone in the country's going to. Someone's case study is going to get famous, maybe one of your friends writes a book. Next you could be the one appearing in movies."

It feels like his heart has sunk all the way down into bowels. It's disorienting to realize that the idea of having his story in movies actually makes him feel nauseous. Jesse forces a smile but feels it curdling, "Hope they make me hot."

"Would that make it worth it, kid? Get yourself a household name? You sure got it spread out pretty far down here."

"I didn't ask for that," Jesse grates out without looking Reyes in the eye. 

"Sure you didn't, just branded your arm up so everyone would _know_."

"So what?" Jesse spits as his back goes up, more cornered than he'd felt handcuffed to a chair thirty minutes ago. "I live here, asshole, I might as well be _good_ at it."

"How's that working out for you now?"

"I'm still _alive_!" The shout emerges hoarse and already tired, the effort of raising his voice lights up a pain behind his eyes from the remnants of the injury that had put him in the hospital. "I get to eat every night, I get to shoot all I want, most of the people who'd want to kill me are too scared to _try_."

Reyes isn't _surprised_ by the outburst exactly, Jesse can't imagine Reyes ever looking like Jesse managed to get one up on him. But his mouth stays closed so Jesse keeps letting his flap.

"Must be nice to just get to ride up in a place you've never given a _shit_ about, toss everyone in prison, then drop by D.C. to collect your medals from the President for taking out the trash. Nice of you to clean up the place for everyone who _got_ to abandon the rest of us when the omnics hit." Not that Jesse remembers when they crossed the border, rolling north in from the Sonora omnium, but he'd heard the story enough from people who hadn't been toddlers at the time that he pictures it as a tidal wave of uneven metal, glinting bright enough to blind as it breaks across the desert. "Maybe _you'll_ get another movie out of it. Sure would help out your public image about now, right ex-Commander?"

As soon as the words pass his lips he feels like they shouldn't have, but the blood is too hot in his head to care now. He steels himself for a fight, fists rolled, ready to give back what he can against the raw force he'd felt coiled inside Reyes since he first saw him.

But Reyes responds with an unimpressed and unperturbed frown. "Right, no one came to save you so you can't be held responsible, that's how it goes? Bet you've learned all kinds of lines so you can sleep at night while kids younger than you are killing themselves and each other with the guns your buddies put in their hands."

Jesse glares, struggles not to lose eye contact then does anyway. The problem isn't that Reyes is right, the problem is that he doesn't know the fucking half of it. 

The blood rushing through his temples cools, but that does nothing for the splitting pain electrifying the space behind his eyes. Abruptly he just wants to be shoved into a cell so he can call it a day. Maybe it would be dark and quiet. Maybe he'd had more than enough sun in his life by now and spending whatever time was left in a place without windows wouldn't be so bad after all.

"What do you even _want_ , man?"

Jesse meant it as a dismissal, and a snotty one at that. Like being called kid over and over by strangers had made him want to live up to it. Whatever it takes as long as they can be _done_ here. 

But there is a loaded silence following Jesse's complaint. Jesse feels it constricting his gut like Reyes has his hand on the trigger and is deciding whether or not to pull, and has to double check that the man isn't really pointing a gun at him.

Reyes decides to fire. 

"I want you to work for me."

The suggestion catches Jesse like he's finally found the ground after shooting for legends took him high into the sky and then abandoned him without a parachute. A visceral pain crushes his diaphragm, making it impossible to breathe. The only sound he manages to get out is a weak and started " _Oh._ "

And though he knows he must have a thousand questions, the only response to come to mind is _okay._

\------------------------------------------

The calendar flips over to November 3rd as Genji is making his way up the high walls that surround Hanamura castle, but it still takes him an hour of dodging guards or hiding bodies before he makes it to her room on the southern end of the castle. The space is large, befitting someone of her and her _family's_ long standing reliability. 

Her door is left open like an invitation, gentle light spilling across her private balcony. And when Genji slips into the entryway, he finds her sitting at a low table. She is bundled against the chill night in a thick robe, playing a matching game that projects out of her handheld.

It's the most domestic he's ever seen her. An old women up late, playing games to pass a cold and sleepless night. He realizes he could kill her now, without even waiting for her to lift her head.

She connects five, and bright sparkles cascade across the holoscreen. 

It would just take a shuriken to her unguarded neck. She wouldn't die immediately but it would make any ensuing struggle pointless. 

"That took you much longer than expected, young man." Her voice rings with the same crystalline judgement he'd heard his entire life as she shuts the game down with a wave. Impossible to impress, his Watanabe-shishou. "I was wondering if I would need to find an excuse to call off the guards."

The familiarity in her tone startles him, and his lights flicker on, forcing him to step inside of the room and close the door before his presence can be noticed. "You were waiting?"

"Everyone is waiting." Watanabe locks onto him with clear eyes, fearless when she hasn't even moved to stand. "You've hardly been subtle about your agenda."

This is not the first, not the _tenth_ time that Genji has come for people whose faces he recalls from his childhood, but his old ninjutsu master is the first to make him feel as if he hasn't changed. Somehow her gaze seems to find his, as if she does not even notice the faceplate.

But he is a stranger to her now, most don't even realize he is human. Does she simply do this to everyone she meets? Strip years from them until they feel like children in the face of her unrelenting expectations?

Genji brushes aside the questions and gathers up the same anger that gets him through every mission. He doesn't have to try; by the time he has unsheathed his sword, familiar resentment rolls through his veins. "Then, rather than waste their time, maybe I should just finish the rest of you off tonight."

Something like pain causes a single wrinkle in her otherwise unaged face. 

Watanabe's eyes close. She holds a breath for both of them, and Genji wonders if he should just strike now. They never say anything but curses and threats. 

But her gaze drifts down to left hand where she is short three knuckles, and the finger that used to carry her wedding ring is entirely gone. 

"I've been with the Shimada my entire life." She quirks the tiniest of smiles. "That's fifty-five years, now." She bends each of her remaining fingers, as if counting the years off on their rounded ends. "And with all that time comes many opportunities to err, even against the people I hold most dear." Watanabe holds the damaged hand palm-out and stares at him in the gap left between pinky and middle finger. "I cut this one off four years ago, after telling our young leader he had killed his brother."

A sense of vertigo unfolds under Genji, like the floor opened up beneath him and he and he can't be sure this cybernetic body will save him. He fights to swallow with a throat he no longer possesses. 

Why is she telling him this? 

Why say it in a voice just as severe and familiar as ever, as if speaking to her student?

"The others assumed it was an apology for failing as a teacher, taking responsibility for my part in the younger brother's mistakes." Her eyes stay on him, and Genji is glad he doesn't need to breathe, because the weight of her words wouldn't allow it. "I could hardly explain that I had to cut it off in apology for lying to the boss."

The tip of Genji's sword quivers, and he realizes that even though she still sits on folded legs, his stance has withdrawn into something more guarded. "You…" His voice comes out so robotic he doesn't recognize it. 

Watanabe finally stands, with an easy grace that suggests her years have done nothing to hinder her. "It was the best for both of them, I thought. Hanzo would have nothing to hunt after, and Genji, if he somehow lived, could make whatever sort of life he desired if he was dead to the Shimada."

 _Oh_ , he thinks, feeling like he's been strung up by the ankles in one of her traps. Like he's been there the whole time but only just realized he was looking at the world upside-down, _she knows._

When Genji says nothing, Watanabe's features twist into a rare show of fury, and her words cut as clean as any knife. "But instead you _returned?_ Again and again."

 _She always knew._ "Master…"

Genji doesn't know why he sounds so plaintive, or where his own anger went. But the word catches her and she jerks as if struck. Her rage falters and folds, and she turns away as the robe slips off her broad shoulders.

Underneath she is wearing dark blue pants and a short kimono, each wrapped tight to her frame by light armor. At her belt are two long knives.

Right, they were here to fight. Genji tries to reclaim his focus, finds it in the feeling of burning alive, claws like hot iron peeling the flesh from his bones. The fate his family bestowed on him for the crime of wanting his own life. 

"How did you know I'd survived?" 

"I was the first to arrive after your fight." She faces him, taller than he is, and takes her time cracking each knuckle in a distinctly unladylike fashion. "Your rescuers were not as clever as they think."

"So you knew I was with Overwatch?"

"It was not hard to learn."

Genji's lights have receded again, dimmed as they do when he wishes he could disappear. 

He did not come here looking for answers today, but he can't be afraid to face them while someone is finally ready to provide. "Why didn't you tell Hanzo?"

She unsheathes two shobu blades with a defiant chin and a clean, high whisper from the steel.

"First, I lied to keep him from wasting his life hunting you, and then I maintained it so he would never realize his precious brother had decided to become the hunter instead." For a moment her eyes leave him, tracking a pattern across her sitting room. She had never seemed like one for sentiment, but her gaze settles briefly on photos of her daughter, and small decorations Genji doesn't know the origins of. He can't recall ever seeing her smile through sorrow, but she does now, though not for him. 

"Consider it a final lesson, young man, on why we should not lie to those who matter the most." When she returns her attention to him, it is with a grim focus. "It will always cost much more than a finger."

And then she is on him, as if she sensed the hesitation just beginning to shake his foundations, and fell on it with the same ruthless efficiency she'd taught him years ago. 

It's a short exchange. She uses the table to launch herself nearly to the ceiling, and he dives under her. When they turn to face each other she has closed in to the effective range of her shorter weapons, but she's had no opportunity to practice against someone with the superhuman reflexes his body allows him.

He jumps backward with one short step, strikes forward with one long. His blade slips between her ribs, its advanced technology and his enhanced strength piecing her armor with barely a pause. He almost thinks he can feel the delicate tissue of her right lung tearing as he punctures it. 

The only sound of pain she makes is a dissatisfied grunt. He can hear the blood flowing into her collapsing lung.

 _This is what you wanted_ , he reminds himself, as her knives clatter to the floor. 

There's a stitch of pain between her eyebrows when she faces him, but no fear. He feels himself being measured again, found wanting, as always. 

She lifts her left hand up to his visor, dragging one unharmed thumb and three abbreviated fingers across the smooth surface with a light pressure he can only just feel.

"Well, another one down." There's a hitch between her words. "Don't you have anything to say?"

Genji searches his mind, discards half a dozen responses when none of them feel true. 

"No."

"Hm." She looks down at the blade in her chest, holds it steady with both hands and takes a step back, easing herself down the length of steel. A sympathetic pain blooms instantly in Genji's chest, though it feels more like an arrow in the heart than a sword in the lung, and jerks the blade out of her with a single smooth motion. Watanabe lets out a startled hiss, presses a hand over her chest, and wavers before collapsing onto her knees. 

"Don't tell them," her words are fast now, spat out between breaths coming too small and quick. "Rumiko… Hanzo. Don't haunt them with what you've become."

"I thought we shouldn't lie?" 

A wicked chuckle escapes her, and then sticky, bright red blood as she spits on the floor. "You also shouldn't kill your family, but you always only took in the lessons that suited you. A half-decent student at best."

"Maybe you were only a half-decent teacher."

"Oh," she tries for a slow and controlled breath, but it comes out wet. "That may be true."

Genji stares down at her exposed neck. 

He can't remember ever once bantering with her. He'd never imagined the perfection seeking Watanabe-shishou having enough sense of humor to fill a teacup with. Maybe it had always just been too dark to burden her students with.

Feeling more steady than he would have expected, he presses the tip of his blade to the back of her neck. He would not leave her to suffer, and he needs to be sure she is dead before anyone finds her. If she knows who he is then he can't risk her having a change of heart about what she hides from Hanzo. 

"Is there anything else?" He asks.

"No." She shoves until she sits upright, shaking fingers digging into her thighs. He notices the color has started to drain from her face. "I think… it's a bit too late for all of that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo everyone!
> 
> I just wanted to say thanks that even tho my "I'm going to be productive in many different ways!" break turned into "Actually I'm going to be mostly unproductive and only do things I personally care about for a while", everyone was so super chill and supportive and kind, despite me feeling a bit like a loser for building up so much momentum with Truce and then just letting it evaporate.
> 
> I've spent the last few weeks trying to get that steam built up again, and I fully committed to finishing Truce, though I'm not sure how long it will take and I will be surprised if i get to the one chapter every 10 days level I was at before.
> 
> Thanks so much for your support, it means tons to me! And with the next chapter we will begin the final act of Truce. I hope you've enjoyed this flashback to some trying times in the boys pasts. 
> 
> ALSO, for ya'll who lust after some Shimadacest, I wrote a fic [just for that](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8537377/chapters/19572625) as a part of my 'massive self indulgence' month of December.


	15. Chapter 15

Two days after learning his brother was still alive, Hanzo dresses in a dark blue suit, quickly tailored, accented by a green dress shirt that was too bright for his tastes, but his brother had picked it out with a charming air that threatened to suffocate Hanzo in nostalgia, so he had agreed simply to escape Genji asking twice.

"You look like father," Genji says, leaning against the cell bars while Hanzo tries to appear pre-occupied by cheap cufflinks.

Hanzo feels his shoulders square up and can't stop a telling hand from going to his beard. He's heard that more and more in the past few years; it's an observation with a meaning that changes depending on who makes it. 

From Genji, he finds it hard to believe it is a compliment.

"Not the beard," there's a soft amusement in his brother's unfamiliar voice. "I like the beard."

 _Oh_. Hanzo remembers taming it years ago after a bad month in the wake of putting a knife into his stomach, wondering what his long dead brother would have to say about the change. "I thought you might."

"But it makes you look old."

Genji has sidled up around him, closer than he has been since Hanzo's humiliating break down the previous morning. 

Hanzo resists, has been _perpetually resisting_ , an impulse to reach out thumb the metal ridge of the mask to prove wrong the corner of his mind that still insists his brother is dead.

Instead of doing anything so unaccountably childish, he steps back and turns away, forcing his eyes to roll as if the illusion of casual banter will lighten the weight on his heart. "I _am_ old."

"You're _thirty-six_ , Hanzo." Genji is tapping a finger on his cybernetic bicep. "You just settled on an old man's sense of style when you were _sixteen_."

"Of course I did," Hanzo frowns, "You never understood that preparing to be the head required much more than just passing lessons and completing jobs."

Genji's head tilts, "I knew why, Hanzo, just not _why_ \--" his brother trails off with exasperated emphasis on nothing, one hand swirling around his undefined complaint. Then, before either of them can grasp it, he brushes it away. "Anyway, you don't need to look like an obedient little copy of father _anymore_."

Hanzo feels his jaw work, a collection of arguments creating a chaotic pile up in the back of his mind. The only thought that actually gets voiced is: "I'm already wearing the shirt."

"And it looks great on you," there is an eager shift to Genji's hips as he closes Hanzo's prudent distance. One inhuman hand frames Hanzo's jaw; it forces a frown but he sees no escape. "Let me cut your hair."

The small hairs on Hanzo's neck rise in a wave. "Absolutely not!"

"Come on, Hanzo. I used to cut my friends' hair all the time. There's not that much to it."

Genji has two hands on him now, they slide up to hold his head over the ears.

Hanzo freezes, eyes locked on the green streak of his brother's visor, realizing with a distracted distress that even this close he can't see Genji's eyes past it. 

"It won't take long," Genji continues.

" _Now?_ " Hanzo sputters as his thoughts realign. "I have a meeting a half hour! Which you _know_."

"It _won't take long_." Hanzo's head tilts under the guiding pressure of Genji's hands, first left, then right; as his brother images him modeling whatever style Hanzo has not yet agreed to. "And McCree'll be so distracted with the new look you'll get whatever you want out of him."

A roiling, almost overwhelming pressure expands up from low in Hanzo's gut, catalyzed by nostalgia so keen it momentarily takes his breath away.

How does Genji do this? Capture old, familiar conversations and drag them out of the dark recesses of Hanzo's memories like it they had been interrupted by only a few days, not eight years and multiple near homicides. 

"I hardly need your help for that," Hanzo counters, but his words have no real bite. He feels his frown weaken into a disoriented grimace, recognizes it as the expression of defeat.

"I _noticed_ ," Genji responds with a cheeky lilt. "But doing something about your fucking hair is a dream of mine, Hanzo, and you're not going to crush my dreams anymore, right?"

_Anymore._

Hanzo glowers. "I've only known you're still alive for _two days_ and you are already starting on this."

Genji's hands finally withdraw with a condescending pat on his cheek. "I've got to get what I can out of this before you start shooting down everything fun and fashionable. Stay here, I'll be right back."

When Hanzo tries to shout after Genji that he hadn't agreed, he finds his throat uncooperative.

\----------

Surprising neither of them, Genji gets his way.

Any protests over his brother returning with a pair of clippers are silenced when Genji mercilessly points out he doesn't even _have_ a scalp anymore.

On the way to the meeting Hanzo reflexively scrubs his palm where his hair has been buzzed down to little more than a centimeter on the sides and back, scowling as his hand comes away with a dusting of tiny hairs gathering under the fingernails. He brushes his shoulders and neck off again, feeling uncomfortable and itchy in his skin, and regrets letting Genji do anything when he had an interview scheduled.

The cut itself is fine, he supposes. He will get used to it. 

The sensation of a silicone hand dragging across the fine grain of the recent buzz had been unexpectedly pleasant.

So had Genji's crooning pleasure in getting his way and finding the results of his experiment satisfying.

While Genji rubbed his head, then combed fingers through what was left of hair before tying it off, Hanzo tried to internalize the new sounds of his brother's happiness. To associate this cyborg, whose voice was too deep and hollow, but touch too familiar, with the irrepressible young man who would've done no different ten years ago.

\-----

Hanzo is _permitted_ access to a new door today, on the other side of which he finds the cowboy, different only because Hanzo realizes abruptly he's never seen the man do something so mundane as sit at a table with a tablet display projected in front of him. It highlights his silly hat and out of time aesthetics, pulling them into sharp contrast when Hanzo had all but gotten used to it. 

He makes a point to not fuss with his new cut any further, and moves into the room as the door shuts behind him.

"I suppose I will finally learn if you do any actual work around here."

"I tell ya, Shimada-san, I'm really looking forward to--" Hanzo watches McCree's focus shifts from the display to Hanzo, savors the slow dawning as he takes in the changes, eyes sliding first over the suit, then growing wider as he gets to the hair.

It's been years since Hanzo has had anything less than complete confidence in his appearance, but he can't deny that there is something flattering in the cowboy's appreciation being so _dependable_.

"Well, uh, hell. You're really showing me up here," an uncertain smile leaks out as McCree rubs his thumb against the line of his jaw. "Didn't know we were gonna get fancy."

"Hardly," Hanzo disdains, taking in the small, windowless meeting room, the two nondescript office chairs, and the open displays that McCree brushes to the side with an absent gesture. "We call this being _professional_ , McCree-kun. I understand that imprisoning me against my will and interrupting my shower--" McCree's neck straightens in a way Hanzo finds most satisfying "--may have indulged some misunderstandings on your part, but I am a businessman. And you have expressed an interest in hiring me, so of course I dressed for the occasion."

McCree leans back in his chair, countering Hanzo's propriety with overacted relaxation, and a high exhale whistles through his grin. "Sure, you got me there. But _you_ got yourself more than just a change of clothes. Or do you always take on a whole new look for every job?"

"The hair was Genji's idea, he's always--" Hanzo falters, on the memory of what his brother would _always_ do, and the foreign impulse to share a fond bit of nostalgia with a new stranger. "Always had ideas on how I should present myself." He forces the sentence to complete, leaving it truncated and awkward.

But if McCree thinks the same, he doesn't show it. His eyes are still wandering over Hanzo's face with a helpless interest. "Well, tell him he did a fine job. Real, uh--"

Hanzo waits, forcing him to finish.

"--Real professional."

Hanzo smiles and situates himself in his own seat, leaving the room in silence until McCree finds his way back to the matter-at-hand.

"Anyway, you know, to be honest, I appreciate seeing you take this so seriously, Shimada-san." McCree admits while scratching the side of his neck. "The aussies didn't even get why they had paperwork to sign."

"That isn't a surprise. At the street level, they rarely expect more than a promise and an envelope of cash. Has Mr. Fawkes ever even _had_ a job?"

"Not unless you count building bombs out of trash and selling them to anyone else scraping together a life down there _employment_ , nah." Though initially surprised at the question, McCree puzzles his way through it with a considered drawl that reminds Hanzo of the man telling his stories. "Roadhog must've done something before that place tripped into the third circle of hell but I ain't ever asked about it."

Hanzo tucks that question away with a quiet hum, "Are there any others? Or am I only the third of your peculiar little recruitment plan?"

"Third and the last, at least for a while. Don't get the wrong idea, this is all pretty usual. Mostly Blackwatch hires from Overwatch, yanno, if they check off the right boxes."

"Oh..?" Hanzo makes no attempt to hide his interest.

"It can't be that much've a surprise," despite Hanzo's example, McCree still converses with the same easy comfort he'd displayed when they'd gone drinking together. "Nothing as powerful as Overwatch can do all it's gotta do in the open, but a lot of people don't wanna think about what goes on under the table even if they're smart enough to figure out it's happening."

"So you look for the ones who don't mind having their illusions shattered?"

"Nah, we look for the ones who never had any to start." A wry but wolfish grin slides across McCree's face. "It ain't too tough, either. All the kids that _didn't_ lose everything in the Crisis are old enough now to be pissing themselves over how Overwatch ain't all about poster boys and heroics, but there's still plenty of folk out there like me, Shimada-san."

Hanzo lifts his eyebrows. "So you look for children raised in the gangs that sprung up in post Crisis chaos?"

"Not _kids_ , no." McCree grimaces, striking empty air with his heavy hand. "But the kids that got out, went on to make something of themselves, wanted to be a part of the team of heroes that 'Saved the World'? Yeah, most of those guys don't have any trouble understanding that Overwatch has got more work to do than what can show up in headlines."

"Hmmm," Hanzo lets his gaze drift, thinking that it sounded like a group he really has nothing in common with. "In that case, I have to wonder why you think I will fit in here at all."

There is a soft scraping sound, and Hanzo brings his focus back on McCree to find the cowboy rubbing a thumb over his recently trimmed beard. "You're already fitting in, Shimada-san."

Hanzo feels his forehead scrunch in confusion. 

"Hell, I'm probably just as surprised as you. Gonna be honest, didn't think I was gonna like Genji's brother any. Figured this would wrap up with you and him yelling for a bit and then me locking you in a hole somewhere so he could move on."

"So your offer was always a ploy?" Hanzo isn't sure why that irritates him, given that he'd assumed as much from the beginning. 

But McCree shakes his head, sits up and puts his elbows on the table so that Hanzo can feel his weight thrum through it to where he sits. "Nah, it was a real offer, just never woulda bet you'd _earn_ it."

Hanzo feels his mouth open but no sound emerges, unspoken protest snagged in his throat. He swallows twice before he frees it. "I have done nothing here but sit in a cell, something I had little say in."

"Aw, that ain't true and I think you know it. This all coulda gone way worse. Was expecting it to if you were the kind of guy that'd think it's alright to off your own brother."

"Your standards are simply whether or not I felt _guilt_?" He shouldn't argue, this is what he wants. But the cowboy's unexpected-- _undesired_ sincerity sets him on edge.

"Well, no--" The cowboy starts, stops, then turns back like he just caught himself halfway through a wrong turn. "Actually, yeah. I guess you can put it like that. You talk real big about family, Shimada, but if you'd actually decided you didn't owe Genji anything, then I'd know you were full of shit."

Hanzo is staring, he realizes, eyes too wide and telling, locked on McCree's soft brown face. He knows the man is trying to pay him a compliment, offer assurance he has passed some test of character. And it speaks to the cowboy's short-sighted priorities that he doesn't realize that by even playing along with this charade he is betraying his family all over again.

 _No matter what I choose I am full of shit_. But by abandoning the rest of his family for his brother, at least he carries a stink the cowboy has long since become immune.

But that isn't a conversation he wants to have with this man, who, as charming as he may be, does not truly understand.

Hanzo lets his gaze flicker, to a dimple in the table's gleaming surface, then a distorted edge of one of McCree's open displays. "I suppose whether or not you are right to think this will work will be revealed before long." It isn't hard to drag his mind back to the purpose of their meeting, he is more than familiar with negotiating while under the influence, whether it be of alcohol or merely his own unease. "If your offer meets my expectations, that is."

"Er, how do you mean?"

"You're looking to hire my services, aren't you? Then we have a contract to negotiate."

"Hah," the cowboy's amusement reads as uncertain and forced, like he hopes to uncover a joke if he feigns having seen one. "I mean, obviously we aren't going to ask you to work for nothing, but I hope you don't think Blackwatch is where anyone goes to get rich."

Hanzo clicks his tongue, " _I_ hope you don't think my help comes cheaply, Mr. McCree."

"Aw, _now_ I'm a mister." McCree looks to the ceiling in a call for patience that Hanzo is getting quite familiar with. "Alright, _Mister_ Shimada, how much are you looking for?"

\------------------------

A gentle, tinny chuckle echos in the cramped space. It should be dark but a green light half illuminates the matte walls, stacks of old service bots, wheels of nylon rope, and shelves of cleaning product.

"So, basically you gave him everything he wants?"

"Honey, I can't _afford_ to give him everything he wants." 

This isn't one of their more comfortable or scenic spots, but Genji had apparently been feeling sly when he ran into Jesse in the hall, and Jesse had dragged him into the nearest door that would lead to privacy. 

Neither of them complained about being too old to get handsy in a closet.

It's too humid in here now, with Genji's exhaust jets having gone off not long ago, and heat still looking for an escape from Jesse's sweaty skin. Genji's at least done him the favor of removing most of his clothes, and Jesse slowly roams his palms across CNT plates that are cooling faster than he can.

Genji sways in compliance with his touch, the strip of his visor is so bright that if Jesse looks away he's followed by its after image. "Hanzo's too proud to go cheap. How much did he ask for?"

"More'n three times what I make _now_."

Another laugh. Genji tilts his head back for it though his chest doesn't bounce from breathes he can't shuffle out.

Jesse grins, "You know what he said when I told him that?"

"Oh, _definitely_ that it's your own fault if you aren't making more."

Jesse snaps his fingers, "Hell, you do know him. Says he doesn't got to undersell himself just because I do."

Genji stretches, fluid in a way a human skeleton won't allow as he drapes across Jesse's awkwardly folded legs. "Hanzo is usually right about money, you should tell Reyes to give you a raise."

"Just like that, huh? Nah, I think I'm using up just about all of the favors I've saved up with him on this little project." Genji begins to speak and Jesse clicks his knuckles against the flesh-warm plates on his back. "Anyway, I've been doing just fine. Not gonna get greedy and start worrying about it now."

"Mmm. Guess I've never asked for more either. " He doesn't mention a concern that Jesse's heard brought up only once before; that his Overwatch funded cybernetic body costs more than most people would ever see in a lifetime. "So, what did he say?"

"He's agreeing to a smaller fee on a short contract and wants to talk to my boss."

"..Hah." It isn't a real this time, just a soft bark, colored with less amusement than uncertainty. 

Jesse catches the cyborg's chin with one hand. Finds the weight and fit of it quite pleasant as he tilts the bright slash of green toward him. "Something the matter? I thought it was pretty cute of him."

"Cute, huh?"

"Aw, you know what I meant."

"I think you meant cute." Genji's visor tilts, and his voice comes back mischievous as he smacks two excited fingers against Jesse's shoulder. "The hair! I forgot to ask what you think of it."

Jesse knows a diversion when hears it, but damn if it isn't a good one. Since overhearing a bit of drunken flirtatiousness the cyborg had expressed nothing but encouragement and completely unsubtle digs for gossip about whether or not Hanzo was picking up on whatever Jesse was unwittingly putting out. Jesse wasn't half sure of what to make of it, but he was happy enough to not be justifiably in the dog house over making eyes at his lover's brother.

"Would've been pretty frickin' hard to miss, honey. I can't believe he let you get away with that."

"I think he'd let me get away with just about anything right now." Genji admits with a cheeky pitch to his voice. "I'd been trying to fix his hair for years."

Nimble fingers begin to comb through Jesse's hair; a delicate touch that runs from temple to spine. He relaxes back into it with a sigh. "Alright, he looked damn good, I'll give you that."

" _Right?_ " 

Jesse grins, letting his eyes sink closed against the fluorescent glow as Genji's attention encourages staying sprawled on the uncomfortable floor indefinitely. Or at least another ten minutes. "Sounds like you finally got what you want."

There is a pause, beats counted by Jesse's even breathes, and then he feels the pad of Genji's fingers curve along the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbone, across his lip. 

And then between his teeth, so that by the time Jesse thinks to inquire further, his mouth is already occupied. 

\--------------------------

Genji spends two hours sitting on a rock that sticks out a meter above the ocean's surface at high tide, deafening himself with his auditory sensors cranked as high as they will go, until the roaring static of waves crashing against the cliff face behind him obliterates any ability to obsessively run his mind down pathways untaken.

And when that stops working and he begins to hear the nauseating whisper of _what if_ once more, he scales the cliff face and winds his way through the Watchpoint until he stops in front of Hanzo's newly assigned door; a room of his own after he refused to share the Blackwatch barracks. Genji knocks, and sets his fingertips on the thick sheet of steel to catch if his brother is even home.

He hears a grunt, a sigh, a frustrated growl, and a telling lack of response otherwise, not even the sound of nearing footsteps.

Genji impulsively hits the entry panel, hoping to find the door unlocked and his brother in the middle of something private. 

With a silent hum the entry slides open, spilling cold light onto Genji's feet and revealing Hanzo sitting on a cheap single bunk. His pants are bunched up around his thighs, and his calves are lined up neatly on the floor, set to the side while he scowls over the shell of a plastic port encapsuling his right knee and the stump below.

The frown disappears in favor of surprise for a fraction of a second, then returns as soon as Hanzo recognizes his invasive guest.

"Genji!" Barked with that exact, familiar spike of incredulity and ire. It catches him like a hand around phantom lungs every time. 

"Ah, oops." Genji murmurs, not needing to fake his chagrin. He had been betting on something a little more risque and thus, to Hanzo, shameful. _This_ immediately strikes him as more personal than a round of self-service, but Genji has no desire to turn back now and be left with the image of his brother's abbreviated legs to churn through the recesses of his mind. So he invites himself into Hanzo's room with a thoughtless shrug and closes the door. "Guess that was rude." 

A quiet _tch_ is spat between Hanzo's teeth, and his brother returns to what he was doing as if Genji merely interrupted him fletching his arrows, but the high line of thick shoulders reveals his discomfort.

Which Genji ignores. He folds himself onto the unoccupied space of Hanzo's bed and stares down at the nubby ends of his brother's thighs, thinking around the fact that he had sort of forgotten Hanzo uses prosthetics. 

"I figured you'd have locked the door," Genji says, stacking his hands over his raised knee.

"A mistake I won't make twice," Hanzo grumbles, and though his displeasure isn't performative, he makes no suggestion that Genji leave now.

Genji leans forward to get an unshadowed perspective as Hanzo struggles to fit a butter knife under the rim of a donut shaped casing, and notes the skin around it is dark and swollen. "Someone hasn't been taking care of himself. Why are you using a knife?"

"Because when _someone_ kidnapped me in an alleyway they didn't stop at home to get my maintenance kit." Hanzo brusquely jams his weight down on the knife until the hard plastic rim dislodges enough for him to pop it off. "And I was hardly going to be removing any _limbs_ while captured by the enemy."

Genji yanks one of the prosthetics off the floor, turning it over in his hands like if he can see it at the right angle it might make more sense. 

It has been a strangely long time since he thought about his brother's leg cartwheeling through the air, drawing loops across his vision in bright blood. 

"I heard McCree liked the hair," he says.

Beside him, Hanzo snorts between bracing breathes as he works the casing off his other leg. "You are far more interested in what the cowboy thinks of me than I am."

Genji picks at a pebble that's become lodged in the silicone sole of Hanzo's foot.

"I also heard you're getting pretty greedy."

"I see my employer and brother are bound to be quite the gossips." Hanzo murmurs with a dry humor. 

Genji doesn't see a reason to refute that.

"I simply know my value," Hanzo gets the latch on the second leg and peels the unforgiving plastic off of the bruised flesh with a restrained inhale. His stumps have been rounded off to fit into the prosthetics, with a port set deep into the flesh. Currently, a dark groove marks his skin where it had swollen around the case, and below that lies a thin sheen of grime and sweat that Genji is sure is driving his brother crazy. "There's no reason I should assist Overwatch _cheaply_ , when--" Genji reaches out to touch, finding the end of Hanzo's leg soft and too warm. When he squeezes, Hanzo hisses, and bats his hand away in the next moment. "Stop that."

Genji retreats, hears the sound of waves breaking against jagged stone.

Then he leans off the mattress to set down the leg, and finds that Hanzo, of course, has prepared everything he needs; a bucket filled with water, soap sitting on a rag, an opened bottle of sake, and McCree's old biotic emitter. 

Genji folds the cloth over the soap, pulls them and the bucket into easy reach, and says, "Let me help."

Hanzo's mouth pops open, snaps closed, and shrewd eyes rove over Genji's carapace looking for tells he no longer has. Unless the vibration Genji feels quivering out of him is not imagined, and so pronounced his brother can read it, like an anxious code tapped out through his shell.

"I don't need _assistance_ ," Hanzo finally responds with a clipped wariness. "What has gotten into you?"

That's probably a good question, Genji admits silently, as he ignores his brother's dismissal and stubbornly moves to drape the rag, warm and soapy, over the end of Hanzo's leg.

And is stopped, first by Hanzo's large hand around his wrist, then by the cloth being pried away. "Brother," he expects to hear irritation, but instead Hanzo sounds careful and weary. Hanzo stretches the rag between his hands and rubs the stain off of his own skin. "I have long since adapted to this. I didn't allow you to join me for your pity."

The light in Hanzo's small room dims slightly, and Genji pulls his hands back, considers letting agitated feet carry him out the door, and instead digs his toes into the sheets and presses back against the wall while he watches Hanzo work.

Silence weighs between them, heavy on lungs he doesn't possess, and Genji lets himself be lulled by Hanzo's slow and methodical movements.

"Are you already having regrets?" Hanzo asks.

There's a quiet clatter behind Genji, as he tenses and his shoulder blades vibrate against the wall. "No? Why would--"

"It's one thing to want reconciliation." Hanzo interrupts when Genji's responses come slow. "And something else to actually want to see my face every day."

"Heh," Genji chuckles, reedy and uneasy. "Let's be honest, Hanzo. Your face has gotten a lot better in ten years."

Hanzo snorts, and swats Genji's knee with a flick of the cloth in his hands. 

Genji can't smile, but feels the echo of what it is like to, anyway. 

"I don't… get what you're actually asking." Genji admits as he flicks a shuriken out of his wrist and spins the star between his fingertips.

"I'm saying…," there is a pause, and Hanzo digs hard, knuckles turning white while he scrubs his own skin. "We do not need to take this path. I can return to Japan and--"

" _No_ ," Genji cuts in. Hanzo's head whips back to him, eyebrows up, and Genji cuts his shuriken through the air. "You aren't going back--"

"You keep saying that," Hanzo growls. "But I am yet to hear what you want from me _here_."

"I… I want you to work with McCree. With your help he--"

"To what purpose? You do not care about the Koukan-kai."

Genji stops, rolls the shuriken over his fingers, and tries to pick out his next words from amid a rising buzz of uncertainty clogging his senses. "If you're already backing out--"

" _I_ am not the fickle one--"

"Hanzo," there's an electric crack in Genji's voice, sharp, high, mechanical. "Shut the fuck up."

He does, though with the sour twist to his mouth.

"Stop interrupting me. I'm not…" Not sure of what he is saying, having for once been given room to say it. Genji shifts his focus to Hanzo's newly renovated hairline and lets the first words he can think of spill out. "I'm not changing my mind, just because you apologized. Just because things are…"

Now he wishes Hanzo _would_ interrupt. But all he does is lift an an eyebrow and wait while Genji pathetically scrabbles for words to express an idea he doesn't know the shape of.

"Just… Just because I don't, don't really know what happens next." He would like to take a deep breath here. "I was serious about you never going back to the Shimada... I can't. And now, neither can you."

The rag, a shade dingier than it had been minutes ago, rests crumpled between Hanzo's fist and thigh. 

His brother inhales through his nose, a breath that takes a full ten seconds to get in and out of the body. Part of their training. 

"I did not agree to your terms idly," Hanzo responds as he begins to clean the shucked casings with meticulous focus. "I have… I have been reflecting, these past weeks. About how I should have stepped down as leader years ago, but lacked the resolve. If anything, my absence represents the best chance the family has to reform itself." 

_You had the resolve once_ , Genji doesn't say, he doesn't like to be reminded of that night either.

"But there is an entire world outside, Genji. Just because you do not want me with them, does not mean you have to want me with you." There's a casual sincerity to Hanzo's voice, as if they are discussing whether or not to go for ramen. He looks more interested in scraping a dirty film off the inside of his fake knee. "We're never going to be whatever brothers we might have been, you know this."

"I'm never going to be anything I might have been."

It comes out sharper than he meant. Reflexive resentment that appears with years of practice. A muscle quivers in Hanzo's throat. 

"...Neither will you." 

Genji stares down at the shuriken in his hands, tilts it so that its light gleams along the back of his fingers. He continues.

"But… I've been thinking, lately. That being what I am, what was made out of the pieces left, isn't so bad."

The mattress between them creeks, voicing Hanzo's surprise for him as he turns sharply to face Genji.

"I don't know what we do from here, Hanzo." With some effort, Genji drags his focus away from the shuriken and up to his brother's heartfelt expression. _Why weren't you ever this vulnerable when we were kids._ "But if you take off now, just because things are weird, then we never find out."

Open relief that breaks across Hanzo's hard angles.

"...very well," he says. "Then here I will remain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: It is probably obvious at this point I'm not updating very regularly any more and I've had a really hard time getting into the next act. I've decided I can't hope to finish this fic on the pure hype with which I wrote the first 2/3rds of it, but I also don't want to let it go. Right now I'm working on original work and practicing building a steady work discipline so that I can write for things even when I'm not 100% hype about them, and I figure by the time I've churned my way through my other writing obligations I'll be able to roll my sleeves up and focus on Truce until it is done.
> 
> Don't expect any updates from me until probably July at the earliest. I realize that's disappointing for a lot of people and I'm sorry about that. But I really do want to finish Truce, I just need to be practical about how that can happen without me burning out on the will to deal with it.
> 
> Best <3
> 
> -AV

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Here are some links you might find enjoyable:
> 
> My **[main tumblr](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/)** contains fic updates, my various musings on writing, fandom reblogs, and any and all asks. It is not guaranteed to be SFW and I am bad at tags.  
>  My **[writing tumblr](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/)** contains ONLY my writing, where I update Truce scene-by-scene instead of chapter by chapter. So if you want to get a new scene every few days instead of a full chapter every week or two, follow this. It also sometimes include extras/outtakes for Truce.  
>  **[AV on Twitter](http://avoresmith.twitter.com/)** is pretty much just reblogging links from my writing Tumblr.
> 
> If you JUST want Truce related writing extra, but not to actually follow a tumblr, you can find them all **[here](http://voresmithing.tumblr.com/tagged/truce%20extras)**.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by **[this wonderful fanart](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/147022889950/blame-spacekleptogoto-for-implanting-terrible-and)** by _[@kingsdarga](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> I have also received several fantastic fanarts from amazing fans:
> 
> By _[@chloerozo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/)_ :  
> - **[Ch1: Jesse and Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148438643502/au-where-hanzo-became-the-head-of-the-shimada)**  
>  - **[Ch3: Hanzo](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/149588399067/finally-hanzo-is-in-jail-for-making-us-draw-his)**  
>  - **[Ch5: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149639144325/chloerozo-tfw-your-partner-cyborg-is-so-cute)**  
>  - **[Ch10: Genji and Jesse (NSFW)](http://lewdrobots.tumblr.com/post/151453996447/mcgenji-for-avoresmith-polyship-fic-truce)**
> 
> By _[@Nohanjiachi](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Ch6: Genji and Jesse](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/149611686790/nohaijiachi-truce-by-avoresmith-its-an)**
> 
> By _[@Aaska](http://aaska.tumblr.com/)_ : **[Pallas and Genji](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/150479181895/aaska-oh-man-this-looks-so-shitty-but-hey-i)**
> 
> By [_@Jakallx_](http://jakallx.tumblr.com/): **  
> **  
> [Chapter 12: Genji and Hanzo](http://jakallx.tumblr.com/post/153401903669/tfw-you-say-sorry-to-your-brother-for-murdering)


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